UC-NRLF 


275    ED11! 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH'S 

SELECT    POEMS. 

EDITED  BY 

VvJJyJLJEAM  J.  ROLFS. 


GIFT  OF 
Mrs.    John  B.    Casserly 


wiy 

7 


SELECT    POEMS 


OF 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


EDITED,  WITH  NOTES, 


BY 


WILLIAM   J.  ROLFE,  A.M., 

FORMERLY    HEAD    MASTER   OF    THE    HIGH    SCHOOL.  CAMBRIDGE,    MASS. 


WITH  ENGRAVINGS. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN     SQUARE. 
I875- 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1875,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PREFACE. 


THE  plan  of  this  little  book  is  similar  to  that  of  my  edition  of  The 
Merchant  of  Venice  and  other  of  Shakespeare's  plays. 

The  text  is  based  on  Cunningham's,  which  is  the  most  accurate  of  the 
recent  editions.  This  has  been  carefully  collated  with  Prior's,  Corney's, 
and  the  "Globe"  edition,  and  also  with  many  of  the  early  editions,  for 
which  I  have  been  especially  indebted  to  the  Harvard  College  Library 
and  to  the  Athenaeum  and  Public  Libraries  of  Boston.  Among  these  are 
the  1st,  3d,  4th,  and  I3th  editions  of  The  Traveller,  the  ist,  4th,  and  7th 
(an  American  reprint  in  quarto,  published  at  Springfield,  Mass.,  1783) 
of  The  Deserted  Village,  and  the  4th  of  Retaliation. 

The  I3th  edition  of  The  Traveller  (in  the  Athenseum  library)  contains 
some  readings,  including  one  entire  couplet  (see  note  on  line  374),  which 
I  have  found  in  no  other  edition,  early  or  recent.  This  edition  is  un- 
dated, and  bears  no  name  of  publisher  or  printer.  The  title-page  is  as 
follows  :  "The  Traveller,  or,  A  Prospect  of  Society.  A  Poem.  By  Dr. 
Goldsmith.  The  thirteenth  edition.  London  :  Printed  for  the  Booksellers 
in  Town  and  Country." 

The  notes  are  fuller  than  in  any  other  edition  known  to  me.  Many  of 
them  are  original ;  the  rest  have  been  drawn  from  every  accessible  source, 
credit  being  given  in  all  cases  where  justice  to  others  or  to  myself  seemed 
to  require  it. 

Cambridge,  July  30,  1875. 


756919 


CONTENTS. 


P  \C"  R 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH,  BY  T.  B.  MACAULAY 9 

SELECTIONS  FROM  OTHER  MEMOIRS  OF  GOLDSMITH    28 

FROM  THACKERAY'S  "  ENGLISH  HUMOURISTS  " 28 

FROM  "  RANDOM  RECOLLECTIONS,"  BY  GEORGE  COLMAN  THE 

YOUNGER 35 

FROM  CAMPBELL'S  "  BRITISH  POETS  " 36 

FROM  FORSTER'S  LIFE  OF  THE  POET 39 

FROM  IRVING'S  LIFE  OF  THE  POET. 40 

THE  TRAVELLER 47 

THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 71 

RETALIATION 97 

NOTES 107 

THE  TRAVELLER 109 

THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 122 

RETALIATION 139 

INDEX 145 


STATUE    OF    GOLDSMITH. [BY    J.    H.    FOLEY.] 


• 


. 

-  ,  '  , 


1 

f^, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. — [FROM  A  PAINTING  BY  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS.] 

OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 

BY  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  was  one  of  the  most  pleasing  English 
writers  of  the  eighteenth  century.  He  was  of  a  Protestant 
and  Saxon  family  which  had  been  long  settled  in  Ireland, 
and  which  had,  like  most  other  Protestant  and  Saxon  fam- 
ilies, been  in  troubled  times  harassed  and  put  in  fear  by  the 
native  population.  His  father,  Charles  Goldsmith,  studied 
in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  at  the  diocesan  school  of  Elphin, 
became  attached  to  the  daughter  of  the  schoolmaster,  mar- 
ried her,  took  orders,  and  settled  at  a  place  called  Pallas  in 
the  County  of  Longford.  There  he  with  difficulty  support- 
ed his  wife  and  children  on  what  he  could  earn,  partly  as  a 
curate  and  partly  as  a  farmer. 

At  Pallas  Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  in  November,  1728. 
That  spot  was  then,  for  all  practical  purposes,  almost  as  re- 
mote from  the  busy  and  splendid  capital  in  which  his  later 


I0  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

years  wero  passed  as  any  clearing  in  Upper  Canada  or  any 
sneep-walk  in  Australasia  now  is.  Even  at  this  day  those 
enthusiasts  who  venture  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  the  birth- 
place of  the  poet  are  forced  to  perform  the  latter  part  of 
their  journey  on  foot.  The  hamlet  lies  far  from  any  high- 
road, on  a  dreary  plain,  which  in  wet  weather  is  often  a 
lake.  The  lanes  would  break  any  jaunting-car  to  pieces; 
and  there  are  ruts  and  sloughs  through  which  the  most 
strongly  built  wheels  cannot  be  dragged. 

When  Oliver  was  still  a  child  his  father  was  presented  to 
a  living  worth  about  £200  a  year  in  the  County  of  West- 
meath.  The  family  accordingly  quitted  their  cottage  in  the 
wilderness  for  a  spacious  house  on  a  frequented  road,  near 
the  village  of  Lissoy.  Here  the  boy  was  taught  his  letters 
by  a  maid-servant,  and  was  sent  in  his  seventh  year  to  a  vil- 
lage school  kept  by  an  old  quartermaster  on  half-pay,  who 
professed  to  teach  nothing  but  reading,  writing,  and  arith- 
metic, but  who  had  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  stories  about 
ghosts,  banshees,  and  fairies,  about  the  great  Rapparee  chiefs, 
Baldearg  O'Donnell  and  galloping  Hogan,  and  about  the  ex- 
ploits of  Peterborough  and  Stanhope,  the  surprise  of  Mon- 
juich,  and  the  glorious  disaster  of  Brihuega.  This  man  must 
have  been  of  the  Protestant  religion;  but  he  was  of  the  ab- 
original race,  and  not  only  spoke  the  Irish  language,  but 
could  pour  forth  unpremeditated  Irish  verses.  Oliver  early 
became,  and  through  life  continued  to  be,  a  passionate  ad- 
mirer of  the  Irish  music,  and  especially  of  the  compositions 
of  Carolan,  some  of  the  last  notes  of  whose  harp  he  heard. 
It  ought  to  be  added  that  Oliver,  though  by  birth  one  of  the 
Englishry,  and  though  connected  by  numerous  ties  with  the 
Established  Church,  never  showed  the  least  sign  of  that  con- 
temptuous antipathy  with  which  in  his  days  the  ruling  mi- 
nority in  Ireland  too  generally  regarded  the  subject  majority. 
So  far  indeed  was  he  from  sharing  in  the  opinions  and  feel- 
ings of  the  caste  to  which  he  belonged  that  he  conceived  an 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


II 


aversion  to  the  Glorious  and  Immortal  Memory,  and,  even 
when  George  the  Third  was  on  the  throne,  maintained  that 
nothing  but  the  restoration  of  the  banished  dynasty  could 
save  the  country. 

From  the  humble  academy  kept  by  the  old  soldier  Gold- 
smith was  removed  in  his  ninth  year.  He  went  to  several 
grammar-schools,  and  acquired  some  knowledge  of  the  ancient 
languages.  His  life  at  this  time  seems  to  have  been  far  from 
happy.  He  had,  as  appears  from  the  admirable  portrait  of 
him  at  Knowle,  features  harsh  even  to  ugliness.  The  small- 
pox had  set  its  mark  upon  him  with  more  than  usual  severity. 
His  stature  was  small,  and  his  limbs  ill  put  together.  Among 
boys  little  tenderness  is  shown  to  personal  defects ;  and  the 
ridicule  excited  by  poor  Oliver's  appearance  was  heightened 
by  a  peculiar  simplicity  and  a  disposition  to  blunder  which 
he  retained  to  the  last.  He  became  the  common  butt  of 
boys  and  masters,  was  pointed  at  as  a  fright  in  the  play- 
ground, and  flogged  as  a  dunce  in  the  school-room.  When 
he  had  risen  to  eminence,  those  who  once  derided  him  ran- 
sacked their  memory  for  the  events  of  his  early  years,  and 
recited  repartees  and  couplets  which  had  dropped  from  him, 
and  which,  though  little  noticed  at  the  time,  were  supposed, 
a  quarter  of  a  century  later,  to  indicate  the  powers  which 
produced  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  and  27ie  Deserted  Village. 

In  his  seventeenth  year  Oliver  went  up  to  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  as  a  sizar.  The  sizars  paid  nothing  for  food  and 
tuition,  and  very  little  for  lodging ;  but  they  had  to  perform 
some  menial  services,  from  which  they  have  long  been  re- 
lieved. They  swept  the  court;  they  carried  up  the  dinner  to 
the  fellows'  table,  and  changed  the  plates  and  poured  out  the 
ale  of  the  rulers  of  the  society.  Goldsmith  was  quartered 
not  alone,  in  a  garret,  on  the  window  of  which  his  name, 
scrawled  by  himself,  is  still  read  with  interest.  From  such 
garrets  many  men  of  less  parts  than  his  have  made  their  way 
to  the  woolsack  or  to  the  episcopal  bench.  But  Goldsmith, 


12 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


while  he  suffered  all  the  humiliations,  threw  away  all  the 
advantages  of  his  situation.  He  neglected  the  studies  of 
the  place,  stood  low  at  the  examinations,  was  turned  down 
to  the  bottom  of  his  class  for  playing  the  buffoon  in  the 
lecture-room,  was  severely  reprimanded  for  pumping  on  a 
constable,  and  was  caned  by  a  brutal  tutor  for  giving  a 
ball  in  the  attic  story  of  the  college  to  some  gay  youths  and 
damsels  from  the  city. 

While  Oliver  was  leading  at  Dublin  a  life  divided  between 
squalid  distress  and  squalid  dissipation,  his  father  died,  leav- 
ing a  mere  pittance.  The  youth  obtained  his  bachelor's  de- 
gree, and  left  the  university.  During  some  time  the  humble 
dwelling  to  which  his  widowed  mother  had  retired  was  his 
home.  He  was  now  in  his  twenty-first  year ;  it  was  neces- 
sary that  he  should  do  something;  and  his  edu- 
cation seemed  to  have  fitted  him  to  do  nothing 
but  to  dress  himself  in  gaudy  colours,  of  which  he 
was  as  fond  as  a  magpie,  to  take  a  hand  at  cards, 
to  sing  Irish  airs,  to  play  the  flute,  to  angle  in 
summer,  and  to  tell  ghost  stories  by  the  fire  in 
winter.  He  tried  five  or  six  professions  in  turn 
without  success.  He  applied  for  ordi- 
nation; but,  as  he  applied  in  scarlet 
clothes,  he  was  speedily  turned  out  of 
the  episcopal  palace.  He  then 
became  tutor  in  an  opulent 
family,  but  soon  quitted  his 
situation  in  consequence 
of  a  dispute  about  play. 
Then  he  determined  to 
emigrate  to  America.  His 
relations,  with  much  sat-  4 
isfaction,  saw  him  set  £ 
out  for  Cork  on  a  good 
horse,  with  thirty  pounds 


KKTl'RN    KKOM    CUKK. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  13 

in  his  pocket.  But  in  six  weeks  he  came  back  on  a  misera- 
ble hack  without  a  penny,  and  informed  his  mother  that  the 
ship  in  which  he  had  taken  his  passage,  having  got  a  fair 
wind  while  he  was  at  a  party  of  pleasure,  had  sailed  with- 
out him.  Then  he  resolved  to  study  the  law.  A  generous 
kinsman  advanced  fifty  pounds.  With  this  sum  Goldsmith 
went  to  Dublin,  was  enticed  into  a  gambling- house,  and 
lost  every  shilling.  He  then  thought  of  medicine.  A  small 
purse  was  made  up;  and  in  his  twenty-fourth  year  he  was 
sent  to  Edinburgh.  At  Edinburgh  he  passed  eighteen 
months  in  nominal  attendance  on  lectures,  and  picked  up 
some  superficial  information  about  chemistry  and  natural 
history.  Thence  he  went  to  Leyden,  still  pretending  to 
study  physic.  He  left  that  celebrated  university — the  third 
university  at  which  he  had  resided — in  his  twenty-seventh 
year,  without  a  degree,  with  the  merest  smattering  of  medi- 
cal knowledge,  and  with  no  property  but  his  clothes  and  his 
flute.  His  flute,  however,  proved  a  useful  friend.  He  ram- 
bled on  foot  through  Flanders,  France,  and  Switzerland, 
playing  tunes  which  everywhere  set  the  peasantry  dancing, 
and  which  often  procured  for  him  a  supper  and  a  bed.  He 
wandered  as  far  as  Italy.  His  musical  performances,  in- 
deed, were  not  to  the  taste  of  the  Italians  ;  but  he  contrived 
to  live  on  the  alms  which  he  obtained  at  the  gates  of  con- 
vents. .  .  . 

In  1756  the  wanderer  landed  at  Dover,  without  a  shilling, 
without  a  friend,  and  without  a  calling.  He  had,  indeed,  if 
his  own  unsupported  evidence  may  be  trusted,  obtained  from 
the  University  of  Padua  a  doctor's  degree ;  but  this  dignity 
proved  utterly  useless  to  him.  In  England  his  flute  was  not 
in  request;  there  were  no  convents;  and  he  was  forced  to 
have  recourse  to  a  series  of  desperate  expedients.  He  turn- 
ed strolling  player ;  but  his  face  and  figure  were  ill-suited  to 
the  boards  even  of  the  humblest  theatre.  He  pounded  drugs 
and  ran  about  London  with  phials  for  charitable  chemists. 


I4  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

He  joined  a  swarm  of  beggars,  which  made  its  nest  in  Axe 
Yard.  He  was  for  a  time  usher  of  a  school,  and  felt  the 
miseries  and  humiliations  of  this  situation  so  keenly  that  he 
thought  it  a  promotion  to  be  permitted  to  earn  his  bread  as 
a  bookseller's  hack ;  but  he  soon  found  the  new  yoke  more 
galling  than  the  old  one,  and  was  glad  to  become  an  usher 
again.  He  obtained  a  medical  appointment  in  the  service 
of  the  East  India  Company ;  but  the  appointment  was  speed- 
ily revoked.  Why  it  was  revoked  we  are  not  told.  The  sub- 
ject was  one  on  which  he  never  liked  to  talk.  It  is  probable 
that  he  was  incompetent  to  perform  the  duties  of  the  place. 
Then  he  presented  himself  at  Surgeons'  Hall  for  examina- 
tion as  mate  to  a  naval  hospital.  Even  to  so  humble  a  post 
he  was  found  unequal.  By  this  time  the  schoolmaster  whom 
he  had  served  for  a  morsel  of  food  and  the  third  part  of  a 
bed  was  no  more.  Nothing  remained  but  to  return  to  the 
lowest  drudgery  of  literature.  Goldsmith  took  a  garret  in  a 


IN  GREEN  ARBOUR  COURT. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  !5 

miserable  court,  to  which  he  had  to  climb  from  the  brink  of 
Fleet  Ditch  by  a  dizzy  ladder  of  flagstones  called  Breakneck 
Steps.  The  court  and  the  ascent  have  long  disappeared; 
but  old  Londoners  well  remember  both.  Here,  at  thirty, 
the  unlucky  adventurer  sat  down  to  toil  like  a  galley-slave. 
In  the  succeeding  six  years  he  sent  to  the  press  some 
things  which  have  survived,  and  many  which  have  perished. 
He  produced  articles  for  reviews,  magazines,  and  newspa- 
pers ;  children's  books,  which,  bound  in  gilt  paper  and  adorn- 
ed with  hideous  wood-cuts,  appeared  in  the  window  of  the 
once  far-famed  shop  at  the  corner  of  Saint  Paul's  Church- 
yard; An  Inquiry  i?ito  the  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe, 
which,  though  of  little  or  no  value,  is  still  reprinted  among 
his  works ;  a  Life  of  Beau  Nash,  which  is  not  reprinted,* 
though  it  well  deserves  to  be  so ;  a  superficial  and  incorrect, 
but  very  readable,  History  of  England,  in  a  series  of  letters 
purporting  to  be  addressed  by  a  nobleman  to  his  son ;  and 
some  very  lively  and  amusing  Sketches  of  London  Society,  in 
a  series  of  letters  purporting  to  be  addressed  by  a  Chinese 
traveller  to  his  friends.  All  these  works  were  anonymous; 
but  some  of  them  were  well  known  to  be  Goldsmith's ;  and 
he  gradually  rose  in  the  estimation  of  the  booksellers  for 
whom  he  drudged.  He  was,  indeed,  emphatically  a  popular 
writer.  For  accurate  research  or  grave  disquisition  he  was 
not  well  qualified  by  nature  or  by  education.  He  knew 
nothing  accurately  :  his  reading  had  been  desultory ;  nor 
had  he  meditated  deeply  on  what  he  had  read.  He  had 
seen  much  of  the  world ;  but  he  had  noticed  and  retained 
little  more  of  what  he  had  seen  than  some  grotesque  in- 
cidents and  characters  which  happened  to  strike  his  fancy. 
But,  though  his  mind  was  very  scantily  stored  with  materials, 

*  The  Life  of  Nash  has  been  reprinted  at  least  three  times:  in  Prior's 
edition  (vol.  iii.  p.  249) ;  in  Cunningham's  (vol.  iv.  p.  35) ;  and  in  the 
"Globe"  edition  (p.  513).  This  last,  however,  has  appeared  (1869)  since 
Macaulay  wrote  the  above. 


1 6  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

he  used  what  materials  he  had  in  such  a  way  as  to  produce 
a  wonderful  effect.  There  have  been  many  greater  writers; 
but  perhaps  no  writer  was  ever  more  uniformly  agreeable. 
His  style  was  always  pure  and  easy,  and  on  proper  occasions 
pointed  and  energetic.  His  narratives  were  always  amusing, 
his  descriptions  always  grotesque,  his  humour  rich  and  joy- 
ous, yet  not  without  an  occasional  tinge  of  amiable  sadness. 
About  everything  that  he  wrote,  serious  or  sportive,  there 
was  a  certain  natural  grace  and  decorum,  hardly  to  be  ex- 
pected from  a  man  a  great  part  of  whose  life  had  been  passed 
among  thieves  and  beggars,  street-walkers  and  merry-andrews, 
in  those  squalid  dens  which  are  the  reproach  of  great  capitals. 

As  his  name  gradually  became  known,  the  circle  of  his 
acquaintance  widened.  He  was  introduced  to  Johnson,  who 
was  then  considered  as  the  first  of  living  English  writers  ;  to 
Reynolds,  the  first  of  English  painters ;  and  to  Burke,  who 
had  not  yet  entered  Parliament,  but  had  distinguished  him- 
self greatly  by  his  writings  and  by  the  eloquence  of  his  con- 
versation. With  these  eminent  men  Goldsmith  became  in- 
timate. In  1763  he  was  one  of  the  nine  original  members 
of  that  celebrated  fraternity  which  has  sometimes  been  called 
the  Literary  Club,  but  which  has  always  disclaimed  that  epi- 
thet, and  still  glories  in  the  simple  name  of  The  Club. 

By  this  time  Goldsmith  had  quitted  his  miserable  dwelling 
at  the  top  of  Breakneck  Steps,  and  had  taken  chambers  in 
the  more  civilized  region  of  the  Inns  of  Court.  But  he  was 
still  often  reduced  to  pitiable  shifts.  Towards  the  close  of 
1764  his  rent  was  so  long  in  arrear  that  his  landlady  one 
morning  called  in  the  help  of  a  sheriffs  officer.  The  debtor, 
in  great  perplexity,  despatched  a  messenger  to  Johnson ;  and 
Johnson,  always  friendly,  though  often  surly,  sent  back  the 
messenger  with  a  guinea,  and  promised  to  follow  speedily. 
He  came,  and  found  that  Goldsmith  had  changed  the  guinea, 
and  was  railing  at  the  landlady  over  a  bottle  of  Madeira. 
Johnson  put  the  cork  into  the  bottle,  and  entreated  his  friend 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  17 

to  consider  calmly  how  money  was  to  be  procured.  Gold- 
smith said  that  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press.  Johnson 
glanced  at  the  manuscript,  saw  that  there  were  good  things 


.;,      S     _. 


JOHNSON    READING  "  THE  VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD.' 

in  it,  took  it  to  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  £60,  and  soon  return- 
ed with  the  money.  The  rent  was  paid,  and  the  sheriff's 
officer  withdrew.  According  to  one  story,  Goldsmith  gave 
his  landlady  a  sharp  reprimand  for  her  treatment  of  him ; 
according  to  another,  he  insisted  on  her  joining  him  in  a 
bowl  of  punch.  Both  stories  are 'probably  true.  The  novel 
which  was  thus  ushered  into  the  world  was  The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield. 

But  before  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  appeared  in  print  came 
the  great  crisis  of  Goldsmith's  literary  life.  In  Christmas 
week,  1764,116  published  a  poem,  entitled  The  Traveller.  It 

B 


T8  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

was  the  first  work  to  which  he  had  put  his  name  ;  and  it  at 
once  raised  him  to  the  rank  of  a  legitimate  English  classic. 
The  opinion  of  the  most  skilful  critics  was  that  nothing  finer 
had  appeared  in  verse  since  the  fourth  book  of  The  Dimciad. 
In  one  respect  The  Traveller  differs  from  all  Goldsmith's  other 
writings.  In  general  his  designs  were  bad,  and  his  execution 
good.  In  The  Traveller  the  execution,  though  deserving  of 
much  praise,  is  far  inferior  to  the  design.  No  philosophical 
poem,  ancient  or  modern,  has  a  plan  so  noble,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  simple.  An  English  wanderer,  seated  on  a 
crag  among  the  Alps,  near  the  point  where  three  great  coun- 
tries meet,  looks  down  on  the  boundless  prospect,  reviews 
his  long  pilgrimage,  recalls  the  varieties  of  scenery,  of  cli- 
mate, of  government,  of  religion,  of  national  character,  which 
he  has  observed,  and  comes  to  the  conclusion,  just  or  unjust, 
that  our  happiness  depends  little  on  political  institutions,  and 
much  on  the  temper  and  regulation  of  our  minds. 

While  the  fourth  edition  of  The  Traveller  was  on  the  coun- 
ters of  the  booksellers,  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  appeared,  and 
rapidly  obtained  a  popularity  which  has  lasted  down  to  our 
own  time,  and  which  is  likely  to  last  as  long  as  our  lan- 
guage. .  .  . 

The  success  which  had  attended  Goldsmith  as  a  novelist 
emboldened  him  to  try  his  fortune  as  a  dramatist.  He  wrote 
The  Good-Natured Man — a  piece  which  had  a  worse  fate  than 
it  deserved.  Garrick  refused  to  produce  it  at  Drury  Lane. 
It  was  acted  at  Covent  Garden  in  1768,  but  was  coldly  re- 
ceived. The  author,  however,  cleared  by  his  benefit  nights, 
and  by  the  sale  of  the  copyright,  not  less  than  ^500 — five 
times  as  much  as  he  had  made  by  The  Traveller  and  The  Vicar 
of  Wakefield.  The  plot  of  The  Good-Natured  Man  is,  like 
almost  all  Goldsmith's  plots,  very  ill-constructed.  But  some 
passages  are  exquisitely  ludicrous;  much  more  ludicrous, 
indeed,  than  suited  the  taste  of  the  town  at  that  time.  A 
canting,  mawkish  play,  entitled  False  Delicacy,  had  just  had 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  !9 

an  immense  run.  Sentimentality  was  all  the  mode.  Dur- 
ing some  years,  more  tears  were  shed  at  comedies  than  at 
tragedies ;  and  a  pleasantry  which  moved  the  audience  to 
any  thing  more  than  a  grave  smile  was  reprobated  as  low. 
It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  the  very  best  scene  in  The 
Good-Natured  Man,  that  in  which  Miss  Richland  finds  her 
lover  attended  by  the  bailiff  and  the  bailiff's  follower  in  full 
court -dresses,  should  have  been  mercilessly  hissed,  and 
should  have  been  omitted  after  the  first  night. 

In  1770  appeared  The  Deserted  Village.  In  mere  diction 
and  versification  this  celebrated  poem  is  fully  equal,  perhaps 
superior,  to  The  Traveller,  and  it  is  generally  preferred  to  The 
Traveller  by  that  large  class  of  readers  who  think,  with  Bayes 
in  The  Rehearsal,  that  the  only  use  of  a  plan  is  to  bring  in 
fine  things.  More  discerning  judges,  however,  while  they 
admire  the  beauty  of  the  details,  are  shqcked  by  one  unpar- 
donable fault  which  pervades  the  whole.  ...  It  is  made  up 
of  incongruous  parts.  The  village  in  its  happy  days  is  a  true 
English  village.  The  village  in  its  decay  is  an  Irish  village?] 
The  felicity  and  the  misery  which  Goldsmith  has  brought 
close  together  belong  to  two  different  countries,  and  to  two 
different  stages  in  the  progress  of  society.  He  had  assured- 
ly never  seen  in  his  native  island  such  a  rural  paradise,  such 
a  seat  of  plenty,  content,  and  tranquillity,  as  his  Auburn.  He 
had  assuredly  never  seen  in  England  all  the  inhabitants  of 
such  a  paradise  turned  out  of  their  homes  in  one  day  and 
forced  to  emigrate  in  a  body  to  America.  The  hamlet  he 
had  probably  seen  in  Kent ;  the  ejectment  he  had  probably 
seen  in  Munster;  but  by  joining  the  two  he  has  produced 
something  which  never  was  and  never  will  be  seen  in  any 
part  of  the  world. 

In  1773  Goldsmith  tried  his  chance  at  Covent  Garden 
with  a  second  play,  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.  The  manager 
was  not  without  great  difficulty  induced  to  bring  this  piece 
out.  The  sentimental  comedy  still  reigned,  and  Goldsmith's 


20  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

comedies  were  not  sentimental.  The  Good-Natured  Man 
had  been  too  funny  to  succeed ;  yet  the  mirth  of  The  Good- 
Natured  Man  was  sober  when  compared  with  the  rich  droll- 
ery of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  which  is,  in  truth,  an  incom- 
parable farce  in  five  acts.  On  this  occasion,  however,  gen- 
ius triumphed.  Pit,  boxes,  and  galleries  were  in  a  constant 
roar  of  laughter.  If  any  bigoted  admirer  of  Kelly  and  Cum- 
berland ventured  to  hiss  or  groan,  he  was  speedily  silenced 
by  a  general  cry  of  "  Turn  him  out,"  or  "  Throw  him  over." 
Two  generations  have  since  confirmed  the  verdict  which 
was  pronounced  on  that  night. 

While  Goldsmith  was  writing  The  Deserted  Village  and 
She  Stoops  to  Conqiter,  he  was  employed  on  works  of  a  very 
different  kind — works  from  which  he  derived  little  reputation 
but  much  profit.  He  compiled  for  the  use  of  schools  a  His- 
tory of  Rome,  by  which  he  made  ^300;  a  History  of  England, 
by  which  he  made  ;£6oo;  a  History  of  Greece,  for  which  he 
received  ,£250;  a  Natural  History,  for  which  the  booksellers 
covenanted  to  pay  him  800  guineas.  These  works  he  pro- 
duced without  any  elaborate  research,  by  merely  selecting, 
abridging,  and  translating  into  his  own  clear,  pure,  and  flow- 
ing language  what  he  found  in  books  well  known  to  the 
world,  but  too  bulky  or  too  dry  for  boys  and  girls.  He 
committed  some  strange  blunders;  for  he  knew  nothing 
with  accuracy.  Thus  in  his  History  of  England  he  tells  us 
that  Naseby  is  in  Yorkshire;  nor  did  he  correct  this  mistake 
when  the  book  was  reprinted.  He  was  very  nearly  hoaxed 

Iinto  putting  into  The  History  of  Greece  an  account  of  a  bat- 
tle between  Alexander  the  Great  and  Montezuma.  In  his 
Animated  Nature  he  relates,  with  faith  and  with  perfect  grav- 
ity, all  the  most  absurd  lies  which  he  could  find  in  books  of 
travels  about  gigantic  Patagonians,  monkeys  that  preach  ser- 
mons, nightingales  that  repeat  long  conversations.  "  If  he 
can  tell  a  horse  from  a  cow,"  says  Johnson,  "  that  is  the  ex- 
tent of  his  knowledge  of  zoology."  How  little  Goldsmith 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


21 


was  qualified  to  write  about  the  physical  sciences  is  suffi- 
ciently proved  by  two  anecdotes.  He  on  one  occasion  de- 
nied that  the  sun  is  longer  in  the  northern  than  in  the  south- 
ern signs.  It  was  vain  to  cite  the  authority  of  Maupertuis. 
"Maupertuis  !"  he  cried, "  I  understand  those  matters  better 
than  Maupertuis."  On  another  occasion  he,  in  defiance  of 
the  evidence  of  his  own  senses,  maintained  obstinately,  and 
even  angrily,  that  he  chewed  his  dinner  by  moving  his  upper 
jaw. 

Yet,  ignorant  as  Goldsmith  was,  few  writers  have  done 
more  to  make  the  first  steps  in  the  laborious  road  to  knowl- 
edge easy  and  pleasant.  His  compilations  are  widely  dis- 
tinguished from  the  compilations  of  ordinary  book-makers. 
He  was  a  great,  perhaps  an  unequalled,  master  of  the  arts  of 
selection  and  condensation.  In  these  respects  his  histories 
of  Rome  and  of  England,  and  still  more  his  own  abridg- 
ments of  these  histories,  well  deserve  to  be  studied.  In 
general  nothing  is  less  attractive  than  an  epitome;  but  the 
epitomes  of  Goldsmith,  even  when  most  concise,  are  always 
amusing;  and  to  read  them  is  considered  by  intelligent  chil- 
dren not  as  a  task  but  as  a  pleasure. 

Goldsmith  might  now  be  considered  as  a  prosperous  man. 
He  had  the  means  of  living  in  comfort,  and  even  in  what  to 
one  who  had  so  often  slept  in  barns  and  on  bulks  must  have 
been  luxury.  His  fame  was  great  and  was  constantly  ris- 
ing. He  lived  in  what  was  intellectually  far  the  best  soci- 
ety of  the  kingdom — in  a  society  in  which  no  talent  or  ac- 
complishment was  wanting,  and  in  which  the  art  of  conver- 
sation was  cultivated  with  splendid-  success.  There  prob- 
ably were  never  four  talkers  more  admirable  in  four  differ- 
ent ways  than  Johnson,  Burke,  Beauclerk,  and  Garrick;  and 
Goldsmith  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  all  the  four.  He 
aspired  to  share  in  their  colloquial  renown ;  but  never  was 
ambition  more  unfortunate.  It  may  seem  strange  that  a 
man  who  wrote  with  so  much  perspicuity,  vivacity,  and  grace 


22  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

should  have  been,  whenever  he  took  a  part  in  conversation, 
an  empty,  noisy,  blundering  rattle.  But  on  this  point  the 
evidence  is  overwhelming.  So  extraordinary  was  the  con- 
trast between  Goldsmith's  published  works  and  the  silly 
things  which  he  said,  that  Horace  Walpole  described  him 
as  an  inspired  idiot.  "Noll,"  said  Garrick,  "wrote  like  an 
angel,  and  talked  like  poor  Pol."  Chamier  declared  that 
it  was  a  hard  exercise  of  faith  to  believe  that  so  foolish  a 
chatterer  could  have  really  written  The  Traveller.  Even  Bos- 
well  could  say,  with  contemptuous  compassion,  that  he  liked 
very  well  to  hear  honest  Goldsmith  run  on.  "Yes,  sir," 
said  Johnson,  "but  he  should  not  like  to  hear  himself." 
Minds  differ  as  rivers  differ.  There  are  transparent  and 
sparkling  rivers  from  which  it  is  delightful  to  drink  as  they 
flow;  to  such  rivers  the  minds  of  such  men  as  Burke  and 
Johnson  may  be  compared.  But  there  are  rivers  of  which 
the  water  when  first  drawn  is  turbid  and  noisome,  but  be- 
comes pellucid  as  crystal  and  delicious  to  the  taste  if  it  be 
suffered  to  stand  till  it  has  deposited  a  sediment;  and  such 
a  river  is  a  type  of  the  mind  of  Goldsmith.  His  first  thoughts 
on  every  subject  were  confused  even  to  absurdity,  but  they 
required  only  a  little  time  to  work  themselves  clear.  When 
he  wrote  they  had  that  time,  and  therefore  his  readers  pro- 
nounced him  a  man  of  genius  ;  but  when  he  talked  he  talked 
nonsense,  and  made  himself  the  laughing-stock  of  his  hear- 
ers. He  was  painfully  sensible  of  his  inferiority  in  conver- 
sation ;  he  felt  every  failure  keenly ;  yet  he  had  not  suffi- 
cient judgment  and  self-command  to  hold  his  tongue.  His 
animal  spirits  and  vanity  were  always  impelling  him  to  try 
to  do  the  one  thing  which  he  could  not  do.  After  every  at- 
tempt he  felt  that  he  had  exposed  himself,  and  writhed  with 
shame  and  vexation ;  yet  the  next  moment  he  began  again. 

His  associates  seem  to  have  regarded  him  with  kindness, 
which,  in  spite  of  their  admiration  of  his  writings,  was  not 
unmixed  with  contempt.  In  truth,  there  was  in  his  char- 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  23 

acter  much  to  love,  but  very  little  to  respect.  His  heart 
was  soft, even  to  weakness;  he  was  so  generous  that  he  quite 
forgot  to  be  just;  he  forgave  injuries  so  readily  that  he 
might  be  said  to  invite  them ;  and  was  so  liberal  to  beggars 
that  he  had  nothing  left  for  his  tailor  and  his  butcher.  He 
was  vain,  sensual,  frivolous,  profuse,  improvident.  One  vice 
of  a  darker  shade  was  imputed  to  him — envy.  But  there  is 
not  the  least  reason  to  believe  that  this  bad  passion,  though 
it  sometimes  made  him  wince  and  utter  fretful  exclamations, 
ever  impelled  him  to  injure  by  wicked  arts  the  reputation 
of  any  of  his  rivals.  The  truth  probably  is  that  he  was  not 
more  envious,  but  merely  less  prudent  than  his  neighbours. 
His  heart  was  on  his  lips.  All  those  small  jealousies  which 
are  but  too  common  among  men  of  letters,  but  which  a  man 
of  letters  who  is  also  a  man  of  the  world  does  his  best  to 
conceal,  Goldsmith  avowed  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child. . . . 
He  was  neither  ill-natured  enough  nor  long-headed  enough 
to  be  guilty  of  any  malicious  act  which  required  contrivance 
and  disguise. 

Goldsmith  has  sometimes  been  represented  as  a  man  of 
genius,  cruelly  treated  by  the  world,  and  doomed  to  struggle 
with  difficulties  which  at  last  broke  his  heart.  But  no  rep- 
resentation can  be  more  remote  from  the  truth.  He  did, 
indeed,  go  through  much  sharp  misery  before  he  had  done 
any  thing  considerable  in  literature.  But  after  his  name 
had  appeared  on  the  title-page  of  The  Traveller,  he  had  none 
but  himself  to  blame  for  his  distresses.  His  average  income 
during  the  last  seven  years  of  his  life  certainly  exceeded 
^400  a  year,  and  .£400  a  year  ranked  among  the  incomes 
of  that  day  at  least  as  high  as  ;£8oo  a  year  would  rank  at 
present.  A  single  man  living  in  the  Temple  with  ^400  a 
year  might  then  be  called  opulent.  Not  one  in  ten  of  the 
young  gentlemen  of  good  families  who  were  studying  the 

law  there  had  so  much.     But  all   the  wealth  which  Lord 

» 

Clive  had  brought  from  Bengal  and  Sir  Lawrence  Dundas 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

from  Germany  joined  together  would  not  have  sufficed  for 
Goldsmith.  He  spent  twice  as  much  as  he  had.  He  wore 
fine  clothes,  gave  dinners  of  several  courses,  paid  court  to 
venal  beauties.  He  had  also,  it  should  be  remembered  to 
the  honour  of  his  heart,  though  not  of  his  head,  a  guinea,  or 
five,  or  ten,  according  to  the  state  of  his  purse,  ready  for  any 
tale  of  distress,  true  or  false.  But  it  was  not  in  dress  or 
feasting,  in  promiscuous  amours  or  promiscuous  charities, 
that  his  chief  expense  lay.  He  had  been  from  boyhood  a 
gambler,  and  at  once  the  most  sanguine  and  the  most  un- 
skilful of  gamblers.*  For  a  time  he  put  off  the  day  of  inev- 
itable ruin  by  temporary  expedients.  He  obtained  advances 
from  booksellers  by  promising  to  execute  works  which  he 
never  began.  But  at  length  this  source  of  supply  failed. 
He  owed  more  than  ^2000,  and  he  saw  no  hope  of  extrica- 
tion from  his  embarrassments.  His  spirits  and  health  gave 
way.  He  was  attacked  by  a  nervous  fever,  which  he  thought 
himself  competent  to  treat.  It  would  have  been  happy  for 
him  if  his  medical  skill  had  been  appreciated  as  justly  by 
himself  as  by  others.  Notwithstanding  the  degree  which  he 
pretended  to  have  received  at  Padua,  he  could  procure  no 
patients.  "I  do  not  practice,"  he  once  said;  "I  make  it 
a  rule  to  prescribe  only  for  my  friends."  "  Pray,  dear  Doc- 
tor," said  Beauclerk,  "  alter  your  rule,  and  prescribe  only 
for  your  enemies."  Goldsmith  now,  in  spite  of  this  excel- 
lent advice,  prescribed  for  himself.  The  remedy  aggravated 
the  malady.  The  sick  man  was  induced  to  call  in  real  phy- 
sicians, and  they  at  one  time  imagined  that  they  had  cured 
the  disease.  Still  his  weakness  and  restlessness  continued. 
He  could  get  no  sleep ;  he  could  take  no  food.  "  You  are 
worse,"  said  one  of  his  medical  attendants,  "  than  you  should 
be  from  the  degree  of  fever  which  you  have.  Is  your  mind 
at  ease  ?"  "  No,  it  is  not,"  were  the  last  recorded  words  of 
Oliver  Goldsmith.  £Te  died  on  the  3d  of  April,  1774,  in  his 

*  See  extract  from  Irving,  p.  140. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  25 

forty -sixth  year.  He  was  laid  in  the  churchyard  of  the 
Temple  ;  but  the  spot  was  not  marked  by  any  inscription, 
and  is  now  forgotten.  The  coffin  was  followed  by  Burke 
and  Reynolds.  Both  these  great  men  were  sincere  mourn- 
ers. Burke,  when  he  heard  of  Goldsmith's  death,  had  burst 
into  a  flood  of  tears.  Reynolds  had  been  so  much  moved 
by  the  news  that  he  had  flung  aside  his  brush  and  pallet 
for  the  day. 

A  short  time  after  Goldsmith's  death  a  little  poem  ap- 
peared, which  will,  as  long  as  our  language  lasts,  associate 
the  names  of  his  two  illustrious  friends  with  his  own.  It 
has  already  been  mentioned  that  he  sometimes  felt  keenly 
the  sarcasm  which  his  wild,  blundering  talk  brought  upon 
him.  He  was,  not  long  before  his  last  illness,  provoked 
into  retaliating.  He  wisely  betook  himself  to  his  pen,  and 
at  that  weapon  he  proved  himself  a  match  for  all  his  as- 
sailants together.  Within  a  small  compass  he  drew  with 
a  singularly  easy  and  vigorous  pencil  the  characters  of 
nine  or  ten  of  his  intimate  associates.  Though  this  little 
work  did  not  receive  his  last  touches,  it  must  always  be 
regarded  as  a  masterpiece.  It  is  impossible,  however,  not 
to  wish  that  four  or  five  likenesses  which  have  no  interest 
for  posterity  were  wanting  to  that  noble  gallery,  and  that 
their  places  were  supplied  by  sketches  of  Johnson  and  Gib- 
bon, as  happy  and  vivid  as  the  sketches  of  Burke  and  Garrick. 

Some  of  Goldsmith's  friends  and  admirers  honoured  him 
with  a  cenotaph  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Nollekens  was  the 
sculptor,  and  Johnson  wrote  the  inscription.  It  is  much  to 
be  lamented  that  Johnson  did  not  leave  to  posterity  a  more 
durable  and  a  more  valuable  memorial  of  his  friend.  A  life 
of  Goldsmith  would  have  been  an  inestimable  addition  to 
the  Lives  of  the  Poets.  No  man  appreciated  Goldsmith's 
writings  more  justly  than  Johnson;  no  man  was  better  ac- 
quainted with  Goldsmith's  character  and  habits ;  and  no 
man  was  more  competent  to  delineate  with  truth  and  spirit 


26 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


the  peculiarities  of  a  mind  in  which  great  powers  were  found 
in  company  with  great  weaknesses.  But  the  list  of  poets  to 
whose  works  Johnson  was  requested  by  the  booksellers  to 
furnish  prefaces  ended  with  Lyttleton,  who  died  in  1773. 
The  line  seems  to  have  been  drawn  expressly  for  the  pur- 
pose of  excluding  the  person  whose  portrait  would  have 
most  fitly  closed  the  series.  Goldsmith,  however,  has  been 
fortunate  in  his  biographers.  Within  a  few  years  his  life 
has  been  written  by  Mr.  Prior,  by  Mr.  Washington  Irving, 
and  by  Mr.  Forster.  The  diligence  of  Mr.  Prior  deserves 
great  praise ;  the  style  of  Mr.  Washington  Irving  is  always 
pleasing ;  but  the  highest  place  must  in  justice  be  assigned 
to  the  eminently  interesting  work  of  Mr.  Forster. 


OLIVARIi     GOLDSMITH. 

Poetae,  Physic  i,  Historic!, 

GOLDSMITH'S  MONUMENT  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


The  Tablet  is  over  the  south  door  in  Poets'  Corner,  between  the 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


27 


monuments  of  Gay  and  the  Duke  of  Argyll.     The  Latin  inscription 
upon  it  is  as  follows : 

OLIVARII  GOLDSMITH, 

Poetas,  Physici,  Historic!, 
Qui  nullum  fere  scribendi  genus 

Non  tetigit, 

Nullum  quod  tetigit  non  ornavit : 
Sive  risus  essent  movendi, 

Sive  lacrymae, 

Affectuum  potens  at  lenis  dominator  : 

Ingenio  sublimis,  vividus,  versatilis, 

Oratione  grandis,  nitidus,  venustus  : 

Hoc  monumento  memoriam  coluit 

Sodalium  amor, 

Amicorum  tides, 

Lectorum  veneratio. 

Natus  in  Hibernia,  Forniae  Longfordiensis 
In  loco  cui  nomen  Pallas, 

Nov.  xxix.  MDCCXXXI. 
•     Eblanae  literis  institutus  ; 

Obiit  Londini, 
Apr.  iv.  MDCCLXXIV. 


OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH — 

Poet,  Naturalist,  Historian, 

Who  left  scarcely  any  kind  of  writing 

Untouched, 

And  touched  nothing  that  he  did  not  adorn : 
Whether  smiles  were  to  be  stirred 

Or  tears, 
Commanding  our  emotions,  yet  a  gentle  master: 

In  genius  lofty,  lively,  versatile, 

In  style  weighty,  clear,  engaging — 

The  memory  in  this  monument  is  cherished 

By  the  love  of  Companions, 

The  faithfulness  of  Friends, 

The  reverence  of  Readers. 

He  was  born  in  Ireland, 

At  a  place  called  Pallas, 

[In  the  parish]  of  Forney,  [and  county]  of  Longford, 

On  Nov.  29th,  1731. 

Trained  in  letters  at  Dublin. 

Died  in  London, 

April  4th,  1774. 


HOGARTH'S  PORTRAIT  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


SELECTIONS   FROM   OTHER   MEMOIRS   OF 

GOLDSMITH. 


FROM   THACKERAY'S  "  ENGLISH   HUMOURISTS."  * 

Who  of  the  millions  whom  he  has  amused  does  not  love 
him  ?  To  be  the  most  beloved  of  English  writers,  what  a 
title  that  is  for  a  man  !f  A  wild  youth,  wayward  but  full  of 

*  The  English  Htimourists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century.  A  Series  of 
Lectures.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray.  Harper's  edition,  p.  248  foil. 

t  "  He  was  a  friend  to  virtue,  and  in  his  most  playful  pages  never  for- 
gets what  is  due  to  it.  A  gentleness,  delicacy,  and  purity  of  feeling  dis- 
tinguishes whatever  he  wrote,  and  bears  a  correspondence  to  the  gener- 
osity of  a  disposition  which  knew  no  bounds  but  his  last  guinea.  .  .  . 

"  The  admirable  ease  and  grace  of  the  narrative,  as  well  as  the  pleas- 
ing truth  with  which  the  principal  characters  are  designed,  make  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield  one  of  the  most  delicious  morsels  of  fictitious  com- 
position on  which  the  human  mind  was  ever  employed.  .  .  . 

"  We  read  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  in  youth  and  in  age  ;  we  return  to 
it  again  and  again,  and  bless  the  memory  of  an  author  who  contrives  so 
well  to  reconcile  us  to  human  nature." — SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


29 


tenderness  and  affection,  quits  the  country  village  where  his 
boyhood  has  been  passed  in  happy  musing,  in  idle  shelter, 
in  fond  longing  to  see  the  great  world  out  of  doors,  and 
achieve  name  and  fortune ;  and  after  years  of  dire  struggle, 
and  neglect  and  poverty,  his  heart  turning  back  as  fondly  to 
his  native  place  as  it  had  longed  eagerly  for  change  when 
sheltered  there,  he  writes  a  book  and  a  poem,  full  of  the  rec- 
ollections and  feelings  of  home — he  paints  the  friends  and 
scenes  of  his  youth,  and  peoples  Auburn  and  Wakefield  with 
remembrances  of  Lissoy.     Wander  he  must,  but  he  carries 
away  a  home-relic  with  him,  and  dies  with  it  on  his  breast. 
His  nature  is  truant;  in  repose  it  longs  for  change:  as  on 
the  journey  it  looks  back  for  friends  and  quiet.     He  passes 
to-day  in  building  an  air-castle  for  to-morrow,  or  in  writing 
yesterday's  elegy;    and  he  would  fly   away  this  hour,  but 
that  a  cage  necessity  keeps  him.     What  is  the  charm  of  his 
verse,  of  his  style  and  humour?    His  sweet  regrets,  his  deli- 
cate compassion,  his  soft  smile,  his  tremulous  sympathy,  the 
weakness  which  he  owns?      Your  love  for  him  is  half  pity. 
You  come  hot  and  tired  from  the  day's  battle,  and  this  sweet 
minstrel  sings  to  you.     Who  could  harm  the  kind  vagrant 
harper  ?    Whom  did  he  ever  hurt  ?    He  carries  no  weapon — 
save  the  narp  on  which  he  plays  to  you;  and  with  which  he 
delights  great  and  humble,  young  and  old,  the  captains  in 
the  tents  or  the  soldiers  round  the  fire,  or  the  women  and 
children  in  the  villages,  at  whose  porches  he  stops  and  sings 
his  simple  songs  of  love  and  beauty.     With  that  sweet  story 
of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  he  has  found  entry  into   every 
castle  and  every  hamlet  in  Europe.    Not  one  of  us,  however 
busy  or  hard,  but  once  or  twice  in  our  lives  has  passed  an 
evening  with  him,  and  undergone  the  charm  of  his  delightful 
music.  .  .  . 

The  small-pox,  which  scourged  all  Europe  at  that  time, 
and  ravaged  the  roses  off  the  cheeks  of  half  the  world,  fell 
foul  of  poor  little  Oliver's  face  when  the  child  was  eight 


30  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

years  old,  and  left  him  scarred  and  disfigured  for  his  life. 
An  old  woman  in  his  father's  village  taught  him  his  letters, 
and  pronounced  him  a  dunce.  Paddy  Byrne,  the  hedge- 
schoolmaster,  took  him  in  hand;  and  from  Paddy  Byrne  he 
was  transmitted  to  a  clergyman  at  Elphin.  When  a  child 
was  sent  to  school  in  those  days,  the  classic  phrase  was  that 
he  was  placed  under  Mr.  So-and-So's  ferule.  Poor  little 
ancestors !  It  is  hard  to  think  how  ruthlessly  you  were 
birched;  and  how  much  of  needless  whipping  and  tears  our 
small  forefathers  had  to  undergo !  A  relative,  kind  Uncle 
Contarine,  took  the  main  charge  of  little  Noll,  who  went 
through  his  school-days  righteously,  doing  as  little  work  as 
he  could;  robbing  orchards,  playing  at  ball,  and  making  his 
pocket-money  fly  about  whenever  fortune  sent  it  to  him. 
Everybody  knows  the  story  of  that  famous  "  Mistake  of  a 
Night,"  when  the  young  school-boy,  provided  with  a  guinea 
and  a  nag,  rode  up  to  the  "best  house"  in  Ardagh,  called 
for  the  landlord's  company  over  a  bottle  of  wine  at  supper, 
and  for  a  hot  cake  for  breakfast  in  the  morning,  and  found 
when  he  asked  for  the  bill  that  the  best  house  was  Squire 
Featherstone's,  and  not  the  inn  for  which  he  mistook  it. 
Who  does  not  know  every  story  about  Goldsmith  ?  That 
is  a  delightful  and  fantastic  picture  of  the  child  dancing  and 
capering  about  in  the  kitchen  at  home,  when  the  old  fiddler 
gibed  at  him  for  his  ugliness — and  called  him  ^Esop,  and 
little  Noll  made  his  repartee  of  "  Heralds  proclaim  aloud 
this  saying — see  ^Esop  dancing  and  his  monkey  playing." 
One  can  fancy  the  queer,  pitiful  look  of  humour  and  appeal 
from  that  little  scarred  face — the  funny  little  dancing  figure, 
the  funny  little  brogue.  In  his  life,  and  his  writings,  which 
are  the  honest  expression  of  it,  he  is  constantly  bewailing 
that  homely  face  and  person;  anon  he  surveys  them  in  the 
glass  ruefully,  and  presently  assumes  the  most  comical  dig- 
nity. .  .  . 

I  spoke  in  a  former  lecture  of  that  high  courage  which 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  31 

enabled  Fielding,  in  spite  of  disease,  remorse,  and  poverty, 
always  to  retain  a  cheerful  spirit  and  to  keep  his  manly 
benevolence  and  love  of  truth  intact,  as  if  these  treasures 
had  been  confided  to  him  for  the  public  benefit,  and  he  was 
accountable  to  posterity  for  their  honourable  employ;  and 
a  constancy  equally  happy  and  admirable  I  think  was  shown 
by  Goldsmith,  whose  sweet  and  friendly  nature  bloomed 
kindly  always  in  the  midst  of  a  life's  storm  and  rain  and 
bitter  weather.*  The  poor  fellow  was  never  so  friendless 
but  he  could  befriend  some  one;  never  so  pinched  and 


NIGHT   WANDERINGS. 


*  "  An  '  inspired  idiot,'  Goldsmith,  hangs  strangely  about  him  [John- 
son]. .  .  .  Yet,  on  the  whole,  there  is  no  evil  in  the  '  gooseberry-fool,' 
but  rather  much  good ;  of  a  finer,  if  of  a  weaker  sort  than  Johnson's ; 
and  all  the  more  genuine  that  he  himself  could  never  become  conscious 
of  it — though,  unhappily,  never  cease  attempting 'to  become  so :  the  author 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

wretched  but  he  could  give  of  his  crust  and  speak  his  word 
of  compassion.  If  he  had  but  his  flute  left,  he  could  give 
that,  and  make  the  children  happy  in  the  dreary  London 
court.  He  could  give  the  coals  in  that  queer  coal-scuttle 
we  read  of  to  his  poor  neighbour;  he  could  give  away  his 
blankets  in  college  to  the  poor  widow,  and  warm  himself  as 
he  best  might  in  the  feathers;  he  could  pawn  his  coat  to 
save  his  landlord  from  jail;  when  he  was  a  school-usher, 
he  spent  his  earnings  in  treats  for  the  boys,  and  the  good- 
natured  schoolmaster's  wife  said  justly  that  she  ought  to  keep 
Mr.  Goldsmith's  money  as  well  as  the  young  gentlemen's. 
When  he  met  his  pupils  in  later  life,  nothing  would  satisfy 
the  Doctor  but  he  must  treat  them  still.  "  Have  you  seen 
the  print  of  me  after  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  ?"  he  asked  of  one 
of  his  old  pupils.  "Not  seen  it?  not  bought  it?  Sure,  Jack, 
if  your  picture  had  been  published,  I'd  not  have  been  with- 
out it  half  an  hour."  His  purse  and  his  heart  were  every- 
body's, and  his  friends'  as  much  as  his  own.  When  he  was 
at  the  height  of  his  reputation,  and  the  Earl  of  Northumber- 
land, going  as  Lord  Lieutenant  to  Ireland,  asked  if  he  could 

7   o  O 

be  of  any  service  to  Dr.  Goldsmith,  Goldsmith  recommend- 
ed his  brother,  and  not  himself,  to  the  great  man.  "My 
patrons,"  he  gallantly  said,  "  are  the  booksellers,  and  I  want 
no  others."  Hard  patrons  they  were,  and  hard  work  he  did; 
but  he  did  not  complain  much.  If  in  his  early  writings  some 
bitter  words  escaped  him,  some  allusions  to  neglect  and  pov- 
erty, he  withdrew  these  expressions  when  his  works  were  re- 
published,  and  better  days  seemed  to  open  for  him ;  and  he 
did  not  care  to  complain  that  printer  or  publisher  had  over- 
looked his  merit  or  left  him  poor.  The  Court  face  was 
turned  from  honest  Oliver — the  Court  patronized  Beattie; 
the  fashion  did  not  shine  on  him — fashion  adored  Sterne. 

of  the  genuine  Vicar  of  Wakcfidd,  nill  he  will  he,  must  needs  fly  towards 
such  a  mass  of  genuine  manhood." — CARLYLE'S  Essays  (second  edition), 
vol.  iv.  p.  91. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


33 


Fashion  pronounced  Kelly  to  be  the  great  writer  of  comedy 
of  his  day.  A  little — not  ill-humour,* but  plaintiveness — 
a  little  betrayal  of  wounded  pride  which  he  showed  render 
him  not  the  less  amiable.  The  author  of  The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field  had  a  right  to  protest  when  Newbery  kept  back  the 
MS.  for  two  years;  had  a  right  to  be  a  little  peevish  with 
Sterne;  a  little  angry  when  Coleman's  actors  declined  their 
parts  in  his  delightful  comedy,  when  the  manager  refused  to 
have  a  scene  painted  for  it,  and  pronounced  its  damnation 
before  hearing.  He  had  not  the  great  public  with  him; 
but  he  had  the  noble  Johnson,  and  the  admirable  Reynolds, 


DR.  SAMUEL   JOHNSON. — [FROM    A    PAINTING    BY   SIR   JOSHUA   REYNOLDS,   1778.] 

and  the  great  Gibbon,  and  the  great  Burke,  and  the  great 
Fox — friends  and  admirers  illustrious  indeed,  as  famous  as 
those  who,  fifty  years  before,  sat  round  Pope's  table. 

C 


34 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Nobody  knows,  and  I  dare  say  Goldsmith's  buoyant  temper 
kept  no  account  of  all  the  pains  which  he  endured  during 
the  early  period  of  his  literary  career.  Should  any  man  of 
letters  in  our  day  have  to  bear  up  against  such,  Heaven  grant 
he  may  come  out  of  the  period  of  misfortune  with  such  a 
pure,  kind  heart  as  that  which  Goldsmith  obstinately  bore 
in  his  breast.  The  insults  to  which  he  had  to  submit  are 
shocking  to  read  of — slander,  contumely,  vulgar  satire,  brutal 
malignity  perverting  his  commonest  motives  and  actions :  he 
had  his  share  of  these,  and  one's  anger  is  roused  at  reading 
of  them,  as  it  is  at  seeing  a  woman  insulted  or  a  child  as- 
saulted, at  the  notion  that  a  creature  so  very  gentle  and 
weak  and  full  of  love  should  have  had  to  suffer  so.  And 
he  had  worse  than  insult  to  undergo — to  own  to  fault,  and 
deprecate  the  anger  of  ruffians.  There  is  a  letter  of  his  ex- 
tant to  one  Griffiths,  a  bookseller,  in  which  poor  Goldsmith 
is  forced  to  confess  that  certain  books  sent  by  Griffiths  are 
in  the  hands  of  a  friend  from  whom  Goldsmith  had  been 
forced  to  borrow  money.  "  He  was  wild,  sir,"  Johnson  said, 
speaking  of  Goldsmith  to  Boswell,  with  his  great,  wise  be- 
nevolence and  noble  mercifulness  of  heart — "  Dr.  Goldsmith 
was  wild,  sir;  but  he  is  so  no  more."  Ah!  if  we  pity  the 
good  and  weak  man  who  surfers  undeservedly,  let  us  deal 
very  gently  with  him  from  whom  misery  extorts  not  only 
tears,  but  shame;  let  us  think  humbly  and  charitably  of  the 
human  nature  that  suffers  so  sadly  and  falls  so  low.  Whose 
turn  may  it  be  to-morrow?  What  weak  heart,  confident 
before  trial,  may  not  succumb  under  temptation  invincible  ? 
Cover  the  good  man  who  has  been  vanquished — cover  his 
face  and  pass  on.  .  .  . 

Think  of  him  reckless,  thriftless,  vain  if  you  like;  but 
merciful,  gentle,  generous,  full  of  love  and  pity.  He  passes 
out  of  our  life,  and  goes  to  render  his  account  beyond  it. 
Think  of  the  poor  pensioners  weeping  at  his  grave ;  think 
of  the  noble  spirits  that  admired  and  deplored  him  ;  think 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

of  the  righteous  pen  that  wrote  his  epitaph — and  of  the  won- 
derful and  unanimous  response  of  affection  with  which  the 
world  has  paid  back  the  love  he  gave  it.  His  humour  de- 
lighting us  still;  his  song  fresh  and  beautiful  as  when  first 
he  charmed  with  it;  his  words  in  all  our  mouths;  his  very 
weaknesses  beloved  and  familiar — his  benevolent  spirit  seems 
still  to  smile  upon  us;  to  do  gentle  kindnesses;  to  succour 
with  sweet  charity;  to  soothe,  caress,  and  forgive;  to  plead- 
with  the  fortunate  for  the  unhappy  and  the  poor. 


FROM  "RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS,"  BY  GEORGE  COLMAN  THE 

YOUNGER.* 

I  was  only  five  years  old  when  Goldsmith  took  me  on  his 
knee,  while  he  was  drinking  coffee  one  evening  with  my 
father,  and  began  to  play  with  me,  which  amiable  act  I  re- 
turned with  the  ingratitude  of  a  peevish  brat  by  giving  him 
a  very  smart  slap  in  the  face;  it  must  have  been  a  tingler, 
for  it  left  the  marks  of  my  little  spiteful  paw  upon  his  cheek. 
This  infantile  outrage  was  followed  by  summary  justice,  and 
I  was  locked  up  by  my  indignant  father  in  an  adjoining  room 
to  undergo  solitary  imprisonment  in  the  dark.  Here  I  be- 
gan to  howl  and  scream  most  abominably.  ...  At  length  a 
generous  friend  appeared  to  extricate  me  from  jeopardy ;  .  .  . 
it  was  the  tender-hearted  Doctor  himself,  with  a  lighted  candle 
in  his  hand,  and  a  smile  upon  his  countenance,  which  was 
still  partially  red  from  the  effects  of  my  petulance.  I  sulked 
and  sobbed,  and  he  fondled  and  soothed  until  I  began  to 
brighten.  Goldsmith,  who  in  regard  to  children  was  like 
the  Village  Preacher  he  has  so  beautifully  described — for 

"Their  welfare  pleas'd  him,  and  their  cares  distress'd" — 

seized  the  propitious  moment  of  returning  good-humour;  so 
he  put  down  the  candle  and  began  to  conjure.     He  placed 

*  Vol.  i.  p.  63. 


3  6  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

three  hats  which  happened  to  be  in  the  room  upon  the  car- 
pet, and  a  shilling  under  each ;  the  shillings,  he  told  me,  were 
England,  France,  and  Spain.  "Hey,  presto,  cockolorum!" 
cried  the  Doctor;  and,  lo!  on  uncovering  the  shillings,  which 
had  been  dispersed,  each  beneath  a  separate  hat,  they  were 
all  found  congregated  under  one.  I  was  no  politician  at  five 
years  old,  and  therefore  might  not  have  wondered  at  the 
sudden  revolution  which  brought  England,  France,  and  Spain 
all  under  one  crown;  but,  as  I  was  also  no  conjurer,  it 
amazed  me  beyond  measure.  .  .  .  From  that  time,  whenever 
the  Doctor  came  to  visit  my  father, 

"I  pluck'd  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's  smile;" 

a  game  of  romps  constantly  ensued,  and  we  were  always  cor- 
dial friends  and  merry  playfellows.  Our  unequal  companion- 
ship varied  somewhat  in  point  of  sports  as  I  grew  older,  but 
it  did  not  last  long;  my  senior  playmate  died,  alas!  in  his 
forty-fifth  year,  some  months  after  I  had  attained  my  eleventh. 
His  death,  it  has  been  thought,  was  hastened  by  "  mental  in- 
quietude." If  this  supposition  be  true,  never  did  the  tur- 
moils of  life  subdue  a  mind  more  warm  with  sympathy  for 
the  misfortunes  of  our  fellow-creatures.  But  his  character  is 
familiar  to  every  one  who  reads.  In  all  the  numerous  ac- 
counts of  his  virtues  and  foibles,  his  genius  and  absurdities, 
his  knowledge  of  nature  and  his  ignorance  of  the  world,  his 
"compassion  for  another's  woe"  was  always  predominant; 
and  my  trivial  story  of  his  humouring  a  froward  child  weighs 
but  a  feather  in  the  recorded  scale  of  his  benevolence. 


FROM    CAMPBELL'S  "BRITISH   POETS."* 

Goldsmith's  poetry  enjoys  a  calm  and  steady  popularity. 
It  inspires  us,  indeed,  with  no  admiration  of  daring  design 
or  of  fertile  invention;  but  it  presents,  within  its  narrow 

*  Specimens  of  the  British  Poets,  Cunningham's  edit.,  London,  1841. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  37 

limits,  a  distinct  and  unbroken  view  of  poetical  delightful- 
ness.  His  descriptions  and  sentiments  have  the  pure  zest 
of  nature.  He  is  refined  without  false  delicacy,  and  correct 
without  insipidity.  Perhaps  there  is  an  intellectual  com- 
posure in  his  manner,  which  may  in  some  passages  be  said 
to  approach  to  the  reserved  and  prosaic  ;  but  he  unbends 
from  this  graver  strain  of  reflection  to  tenderness,  and  even 
to  playfulness,  with  an  ease  and  grace  almost  exclusively  his 
own,  and  connects  extensive  views  of  the  happiness  and  in- 
terests of  society  with  pictures  of  life  that  touch  the  heart 
by  their  familiarity.  His  language  is  certainly  simple, 
though  it  is  not  cast  in  a  rugged  or  careless  mould.  He  is 
no  disciple  of  the  gaunt  and  famished  school  of  simplicity. 
Deliberately  as  he  wrote,  he  can  not  be  accused  of  wanting 
natural  and  idiomatic  expression;  but  still  it  is  select  and 
refined  expression.  He  uses  the  ornaments  which  must 
always  distinguish  true  poetry  from  prose  ;  and  when  he 
adopts  colloquial  plainness,  it  is  with  the  utmost  care  and 
skill  to  avoid  a  vulgar  humility.  There  is  more  of  this  sus- 
tained simplicity,  of  this  chaste  economy  and  choice  of 
words,  in  Goldsmith  than  in  any  modern  poet,  or  perhaps 
than  would  be  attainable  or  desirable  as  a  standard  for 
every  writer  of  rhyme.  In  extensive  narrative  poems  such 
a  style  would  be  too  difficult.  There  is  a  noble  propriety 
even  in  the  careless  strength  of  great  poems,  as  in  the  rough- 
ness of  castle  walls  ;  and,  generally  speaking,  where  there  is 
a  long  course  of  story  or  observation  of  life  to  be  pursued, 
such  exquisite  touches  as  those  of  Goldsmith  would  be  too 
costly  materials  for  sustaining  it.  But  let  us  not  imagine 
that  the  serene  graces  of  this  poet  were  not  admirably 
adapted  to  his  subjects.  His  poetry  is  not  that  of  impetu- 
ous, but  of  contemplative  sensibility;  of  a  spirit  breathing 
its  regrets  and  recollections  in  a  tone  that  has  no  disso- 
nance with  the  calm  of  philosophical  reflection.  He  takes 
rather  elevated  speculative  views  of  the  causes  of  good  and 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

evil  in  society;  at  the  same  time  the  objects  which  are  most 
endeared  to  his  imagination  are  those  of  familiar  and  simple 
interest;  and  the  domestic  affections  may  be  said  to  be  the 
only  genii  of  his  romance.  The  tendency  towards  abstract- 
ed observation  in  his  poetry  agrees  peculiarly  with  the  com- 
pendious form  of  expression  which  he  studied;*  while  the 
home-felt  joys,  on  which  his  fancy  loved  to  repose,  required 
at  once  the  chastest  and  sweetest  colours  of  language  to 
make  them  harmonize  with  the  dignity  of  a  philosophical 
poem.  His  whole  manner  has  a  still  depth  of  feeling  and 
reflection,  which  gives  back  the  image  of  nature  unruffled 
and  minutely.  He  has  no  redundant  thoughts  or  false 
transports  ;  but  seems  on  every  occasion  to  have  weighed 
the  impulse  to  which  he  surrendered  himself.  Whatever 
ardour  or  casual  felicities  he  may  have  thus  sacrificed,  he 
gained  a  high  degree  of  purity  and  self-possession.  His 
chaste  pathos  makes  him  an  insinuating  moralist,  and  throws 
a  charm  of  Claude-like  softness  over  his  descriptions  of 
homely  objects  that  would  seem  only  fit  to  be  the  subjects 
of  Dutch  painting.  But  his  quiet  enthusiasm  leads  the  af- 
fections to  humble  things  without  a  vulgar  association;  and 
he  inspires  us  with  a  fondness  to  trace  the  simplest  recol- 
lections of  Auburn,  till  we  count  the  furniture  of  its  ale- 
house and  listen  to 

"  The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door." 

He  betrays  so  little  effort  to  make  us  visionary  by  the 
usual  and  palpable  fictions  of  his  art;  he  keeps  apparently 
so  close  to  realities,  and  draws  certain  conclusions  respect- 
ing the  radical  interests  of  man  so  boldly  and  decidedly, 

*  There  is  perhaps  no  couplet  in  English  rhyme  more  perspicuously 
condensed  than  those  two  lines  of  The  Traveller  in  which  he  describes 
the  once  flattering,  vain,  and  happy  character  of  the  French  : 

"  They  please,  are  pleas'd,  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem." 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  39 

that  we  pay  him  a  compliment,  not  always  extended  to  the 
tuneful  tribe — that  of  judging  his  sentiments  by  their  strict 
and  logical  interpretation.  In  thus  judging  him  by  the  test 
of  his  philosophical  spirit,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  he 
is  a  purely  impartial  theorist.  He  advances  general  posi- 
tions respecting  the  happiness  of  society,  founded  on  limited 
views  of  truth,  and  under  the  bias  of  local  feelings.  He 
contemplates  only  one  side  of  the  question.  It  must  be  al- 
ways thus  in  poetry.  Let  the  mind  be  ever  so  tranquilly 
disposed  to  reflection,  yet  if  it  retain  poetical  sensation,  it 
will  embrace  only  those  speculative  opinions  that  fall  in 
with  the  tone  of  the  imagination.  Yet  I  am  not  disposed 
to  consider  his  principles  as  absurd,  or  his  representations 
of  life  as  the  mere  reveries  of  fancy. 


FROM   FORSTER'S   LIFE  OF  THE  POET.' 

Of  the  many  clever  and  indeed  wonderful  writings  that 
from  age  to  age  are  poured  forth  into  the  world,  what  is  it 
that  puts  upon  the  few  the  stamp  of  immortality,  and  makes 
them  seem  indestructible  as  nature  ?  What  is  it  but  their 
wise  rejection  of  everything  superfluous  ? — being  grave  his- 
tories, or  natural  stories,  of  everything  that  is  not  history  or 
nature  ? — being  poems,  of  everything  that  is  not  poetry,  how- 
ever much  it  may  resemble  it;  and  especially  of  that  prodi- 
gal accumulation  of  thoughts  and  images  which,  till  proper- 
ly sifted  and  selected,  is  as  the  unhewn  to  the  chiselled  mar- 
ble ?  What  is  it,  in  short,  but  that  unity,  completeness,  pol- 
ish, and  perfectness  in  every  part  which  Goldsmith  attained  ? 
It  may  be  said  that  his  range  is  limited,  and  that,  whether 
in  his  poetry  or  his  prose,  he  seldom  wanders  far  from  the 
ground  of  his  own  experience;  but  within  that  circle  how 
potent  is  his  magic,  what  a  command  it  exercises  over  the 
happiest  forms  of  art,  with  what  a  versatile  grace  it  moves 

*  Life  and  Times  of  Oliver  Goldsmithjay  John  Forster,  vol.  i.  p.  228. 


4o  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

between  what  saddens  us  in  humour  or  smiles  on  us  in  grief, 
and  how  unerring  our  response  of  laughter  or  of  tears  !  Thus, 
his  pictures  may  be  small;  may  be  far  from  historical  pieces, 
amazing  or  confounding  us  ;  may  be  even,  if  severest  criti- 
cism will  have  it  so,  mere  happy  tableaux  de  genre  hanging 
up  against  our  walls;  but  their  colours  are  exquisite  and 
unfading  ;  they  have  that  universal  expression  which  never 
rises  higher  than  the  comprehension  of  the  humblest,  yet 
is  ever  on  a  level  with  the  understanding  and  appreciation 
of  the  loftiest ;  they  possess  that  familiar  sweetness  of 
household  expression  which  wins  them  welcome,  alike  where 
the  rich  inhabit  and  in  huts  where  poor  men  lie  ;  and  there, 
improving  and  gladdening  all,  they  are  likely  to  hang  for- 
ever.   

FROM    IRVING'S    LIFE    OF    THE.  POET.* 

There  are  few  writers  for  whom  the  reader  feels  such 
personal  kindness  as  for  Oliver  Goldsmith,  for  few  have  so 
eminently  possessed  the  magic  gift  of  identifying  themselves 
with  their  writings.  We  read  his  character  in  every  page, 
and  grow  into  familiar  intimacy  with  him  as  we  read.  The 
artless  benevolence  that  beams  throughout  his  works;  the 
whimsical  yet  amiable  views  of  human  life  and  human  nat- 
ure ;  the  unforced  humour,  blending  so  happily  with  good- 
feeling  and  good-sense,  and  singularly  dashed  at  times  with 
a  pleasing  melancholy;  even  the  very  nature  of  his  mellow 
and  flowing  and  softly  tinted  style — all  seem  to  bespeak  his 
moral  as  well  as  his  intellectual  qualities,  and  make  us  love 
the  man  at  the  same  time  that  we  admire  the  author.  While 
the  productions  of  writers  of  loftier  pretension  and  more 
sounding  names  are  suffered  to  moulder  on  our  shelves, 
those  of  Goldsmith  are  cherished  and  laid  in  our  bosoms. 
We  do  not  quote  them  with  ostentation,  but  they  mingle 

*  Oliver  Goldsmith :  a  Biography.  By  Washington  Irving.  Edit,  of 
1849,  p.  17  foil. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  4I 

with  our  minds,  sweeten  our  tempers,  and  harmonize  our 
thoughts;  they  put  us  in  good-humour  with  ourselves  and 
with  the  world,  and  in  so  doing  they  make  us  happier  and 
better  men. 

An  acquaintance  with  the  private  biography  of  Goldsmith 
lets  us  into  the  secret  of  his  gifted  pages.  We  there  dis- 
cover them  to  be  little  more  than  transcripts  of  his  own 
heart  and  picturings  of  his  fortunes.  There  he  shows  him- 
self the  same  kind,  artless,  good-humoured,  excursive,  sensi- 
ble, whimsical,  intelligent  being  that  he  appears  in  his  writ- 
ings. Scarcely  an  adventure  or  character  is  given  in  his 
works  that  may  not  be  traced  to  his  own  parti-coloured  story. 
Many  of  his  most  ludicrous  scenes  and  ridiculous  incidents 
have  been  drawn  from  his  own  blunders  and  mischances, 
and  he  seems  really  to  have  been  buffeted  into  almost  every 
maxim  imparted  by  him  for  the  instruction  of  his  reader.  . . . 

Never  was  the  trite,  because  sage  apothegm,  that  "  The 
child  is  father  to  the  man,"  more  fully  verified  than  in  the 
case  of  Goldsmith.  He  is  shy,  awkward,  and  blundering  in 
childhood,  yet  full  of  sensibility;  he  is  a  butt  for  the  jeers 
and  jokes  of  his  companions,  but  apt  to  surprise  and  con- 
found them  by  sudden  and  witty  repartees;  he  is  dull  and 
stupid  at  his  tasks,  yet  an  eager  and  intelligent  devourer  of 
the  travelling  tales  and  campaigning  stories  of  his  half-mil- 
itary pedagogue ;  he  may  be  a  dunce,  but  he  is  already  a 
rhymer;  and  his-  early  scintillations  of  poetry  awaken  the 
expectations  of  his  friends.  He  seems  from  infancy  to  have 
been  compounded  of  two  natures — one  bright,  the  other  blun- 
dering; or  to  have  had  fairy  gifts  laid  in  his  cradle  by  the 
"  good  people  "  who  haunted  his  birthplace,  the  old  goblin 
mansion  on  the  banks  of  the  Inny. 

He  carries  with  him  the  wayward  elfin  spirit,  if  we  may 
so  term  it,  throughout  his  career.  His  fairy  gifts  are  of  no 
avail  at  school,  academy,  or  college  :  they  unfit  him  for  close 
study  and  practical  science,  and  render  him  heedless  of 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

everything  that  does  not  address  itself  to  his  poetical  im- 
agination and  genial  and  festive  feelings;  they  dispose  him 
to  break  away  from  restraint,  to  stroll  about  hedges,  green 
lanes,  and  haunted  streams,  to  revel  with  jovial  companions, 
or  to  rove  the  country  like  a  gypsy  in  quest  of  odd  advent- 
ures. 

As  if  confiding  in  these  delusive  gifts,  he  takes  no  heed 
of  the  present  nor  care  for  the  future,  lays  no  regular  and 
solid  foundation  of  knowledge,  follows  out  no  plan,  adopts 
and  discards  those  recommended  by  his  friends;  at  one  time 
prepares  for  the  ministry,  next  turns  to  the  law,  and  then 
fixes  upon  medicine.  He  repairs  to  Edinburgh,  the  great 
emporium  of  medical  science,  but  the  fairy  gifts  accompany 
him;  he  idles  and  frolics  away  his  time  there,  imbibing  only 
such  knowledge  as  is  agreeable  to  him;  makes  an  excursion 
to  the  poetical  regions  of  the  Highlands;  and  having  walk- 
ed the  hospitals  for  the  customary  time,  sets  off  to  ramble 
over  the  Continent,  in  quest  of  novelty  rather  than  knowl- 
edge. His  whole  tour  is  a  poetical  one.  He  fancies  he  is 
playing  the  philosopher  while  he  is  really  playing  the  poet; 
and  though  professedly  he  attends  lectures  and  visits  foreign 
universities,  so  deficient  is  he  on  his  return,  in  the  studies 
for  which  he  set  out,  that  he  fails  in  an  examination  as  a 
surgeon's  mate  ;  and  while  figuring  as  a  doctor  of  medicine, 
is  outvied  on  a  point  of  practice  by  his  apothecary.  Baffled 
in  every  regular  pursuit,  after  trying  in  vain  some  of  the 
humbler  callings  of  commonplace  life,  he  is  driven  almost 
by  chance  to  the  exercise  of  his  pen,  and  here  the  fairy  gifts 
come  to  his  assistance.  For  a  long  time,  however,  he  seems 
unaware  of  the  magic  properties  of  that  pen  :  he  uses  it  only 
as  a  makeshift  until  he  can  find  a  legitimate  means  of  sup- 
port. He  is  not  a  learned  man,  and  can  write  but  meagrely 
and  at  second-hand  on  learned  subjects;  but  he  has  a  quick 
convertible  talent  that  seizes  lightly  on  the  points  of  knowl- 
edge necessary  to  the  illustration  of  a  theme :  his  writings 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


43 


for  a  time  are  desultory,  the  fruits  of  what  he  has  seen  and 
felt,  or  what  he  has  recently  and  hastily  read ;  but  his  gifted 
pen  transmutes  everything  into  gold,  and  his  own  genial  nat- 
ure reflects  its  sunshine  through  his  pages. 

Still  unaware  of  his  powers,  he  throws  off  his  writings 
anonymously,  to  go  with  the  writings  of  less  favoured  men ; 
and  it  is  a  long  time,  and  after  a  bitter  struggle  with  poverty 
and  humiliation,  before  he  acquires  confidence  in  his  literary 
talent  as  a  means  of  support,  and  begins  to  dream  of  rep- 
utation. 

From  this  time  his  pen  is  a  wand  of  power  in  his  hand, 
and  he  has  only  to  use  it  discreetly  to  make  it  competent 
to  all  his  wants.  But  discretion  is  not  a  part  of  Goldsmith's 
nature;  and  it  seems  the  property  of  these  fairy  gifts  to  be 
accompanied  by  moods  and  temperaments  to  render  their 
effect  precarious.  The  heedlessness  of  his  early  days;  his 
disposition  for  social  enjoyment;  his  habit  of  throwing  the 
present  on  the  neck  of  the  future,  still  continue.  His  ex- 
penses forerun  his  means;  he  incurs  debts  on  the  faith  of 
what  his  magic  pen  is  to  produce,  and  then,  under  the  press- 
ure of  his  debts,  sacrifices  its  productions  for  prices  far  be- 
low their  value.  It  is  a  redeeming  circumstance  in  his  prod- 
igality that  it  is  lavished  oftener  upon  others  than  upon 
himself:  he  gives  without  thought  or  stint,  artd  is  the  con- 
tinual dupe  of  his  benevolence  and  his  trustfulness  in  human 
nature.  We  may  say  of  him  as  he  says  of  one  of  his  heroes, 
"  He  could  not  stifle  the  natural  impulse  which  he  had  to  do 
good,  but  frequently  borrowed  money  to  relieve  the  distress- 
ed; and  when  he  knew  not  conveniently  where  to  borrow, 
he  has  been  observed  to  shed  tears  as  he  passed  through  the 
wretched  suppliants  who  attended  his  gate.  .  .  .  His  simplicity 
in  trusting  persons  whom  he  had  no  previous  reasons  to  place 
confidence  in  seems  to  be  one  of  those  lights  of  his  character 
which,  while  they  impeach  his  understanding,  do  honour  to 
his  benevolence.  The  low  and  the  timid  are  ever  suspicious; 


44  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

but  a  heart  impressed  with  honourable  sentiments  expects 
from  others  sympathetic  sincerity."* 

His  heedlessness  in  pecuniary  matters,  which  had  render- 
ed his  life  a  struggle  with  poverty  even  in  the  days  of  his 
obscurity,  rendered  the  struggle  still  more  intense  when  his 
fairy  gifts  had  elevated  him  into  the  society  of  the  wealthy 
and  luxurious,  and  imposed  on  his  simple  and  generous  spirit 
fancied  obligations  to  a  more  ample  and  bounteous  display. 

"  How  comes  it,"  says  a  recent  and  ingenious  critic,  "  that 
in  all  the  miry  paths  of  life  which  he  had  trod,  no  speck  ever 
sullied  the  robe  of  his  modest  and  graceful  muse.  How 
amid  all  that  love  of  inferior  company,  which  never  to  the 
last  forsook  him,  did  he  keep  his  genius  so  free  from  every 
touch  of  vulgarity  ?" 

We  answer  that  it  was  owing  to  the  innate  purity  and 
goodness  of  his  nature;  there  was  nothing  in  it  that  assimi- 
lated to  vice  and  vulgarity.  Though  his  circumstances  often 
compelled  him  to  associate  with  the  poor,  they  never  could 
betray  him  into  companionship  with  the  depraved.  His  rel- 
ish for  humour  and  for  the  study  of  character,  as  we  have 
before  observed,  brought  him  often  into  convivial  company 
of  a  vulgar  kind;  but  he  discriminated  between  their  vulgar- 
ity and  their  amusing  qualities,  or  rather  wrought  from  the 
whole  those  familiar  pictures  of  life  which  form  the  staple  of 
his  most  popular  writings. 

Much,  too,  of  this  intact  purity  of  heart  may  be  ascribed 
to  the  lessons  of  his  infancy  under  the  paternal  roof;  to  the 
gentle,  benevolent,  elevated,  unworldly  maxims  of  his  father, 
who,  "  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year,"  infused  a  spirit 
into  his  child  which  riches  could  not  deprave  nor  poverty  de- 
grade. Much  of  his  boyhood,  too,  had  been  passed  in  the 
household  of  his  uncle,  the  amiable  and  generous  Contarine; 
where  he  talked  of  literature  with  the  good  pastor,  and  prac- 
ticed music  with  his  daughter,  and  delighted  them  both  by 

*  Goldsmith's  Life  of  Nash. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


45 


his  juvenile  attempts  at  poetry.  These  early  associations 
breathed  a  grace  and  refinement  into  his  mind,  and  tuned  it 
up  after  the  rough  sports  on  the  green  or  the  frolics  at  the 
tavern.  These  led  him  to  turn  from  the  roaring  glees  of  the 
club  to  listen  to  the  harp  of  his  cousin  Jane,  and  from  the 
rustic  triumph  of  "  throwing  sledge  "  to  a  stroll  with  his  flute 
along  the  pastoral  banks  of  the  Inny. 

The  gentle  spirit  of  his  father  walked  with  him  through 
life,  a  pure  and  virtuous  monitor;  and  in  all  the  vicissitudes 
of  his  career,  we  find  him  ever  more  chastened  in  mind  by 
the  sweet  and  holy  recollections  of  the  home  of  his  infancy. 

It  has  been  questioned  whether  he  really  had  any  religious 
feeling.  Those  who  raise  the  question  have  never  consider- 
ed well  his  writings ;  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield  and  his  pictures 
of  the  village  pastor  present  religion  under  its  most  en- 
dearing forms,  and  with  a  feeling  that  could  only  flow  from 
the  deep  convictions  of  the  heart.  When  his  fair  travelling 
companions  at  Paris  urged  him  to  read  the  Church  Service 
on  a  Sunday,  he  replied  that  "he  was  not  worthy  to  do  it." 
He  had  seen  in  early  life  the  sacred  offices  performed  by  his 
father  and  his  brother,  with  a  solemnity  which  had  sanctified 
them  in  his  memory;  how  could  he  presume  to  undertake 
such  functions?  His  religion  has  been  called  in  question  by 
Johnson  and  by  Boswell :  he  certainly  had  not  the  gloomy 
hypochondriacal  piety  of  the  one  nor  the  babbling  mouth- 
piety  of  the  other;  but  the  spirit  of  Christian  charity  breathed 
forth  in  his  writings  and  illustrated  in  his  conduct  give  us 
reason  to  believe  he  had  the  indwelling  religion  of  the 
soul.  .  .  . 

From  the  general  tone  of  Goldsmith's  biography,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  his  faults,  at  the  worst,  were  but  negative,  while 
his  merits  were  great  and  decided.  He  was  no  one's  enemy 
but  his  own ;  his  errors,  in  the  main,  inflicted  evil  on  none 
but  himself,  and  were  so  blended  with  humorous  and  even 
affecting  circumstances  as  to  disarm  anger  and  conciliate 


46  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

kindness.  Where  eminent  talent  is  united  to  spotless  virtue 
we  are  awed  and  dazzled  into  admiration,  but  our  admiration 
is  apt  to  be  cold  and  reverential;  while  there  is  something 
in  the  harmless  infirmities  of  a  good  and  great  but  erring 
individual  that  pleads  touchingly  to  our  nature;  and  we 
turn  more  kindly  towards  the  object  of  our  idolatry  when 
we  find  that,  like  ourselves,  he  is  mortal  and  is  frail.  The 
epithet  so  often  heard,  and  in  such  kindly  tones,  of  "poor 
Goldsmith,"  speaks  volumes.  Few  who  consider  the  real 
compound  of  admirable  and  whimsical  qualities  which  form 
his  character  would  wish  to  prune  away  its  eccentricities, 
trim  its  grotesque  luxuriance,  and  clip  it  down  to  the  decent 
formalities  of  rigid  virtue.  "Let  not  his  frailties  be  remem- 
bered," said  Johnson;  "he  was  a  very  great  man."  But, 
for  our  part,  we  rather  say  "  Let  them  be  remembered,"  since 
their  tendency  is  to  endear;  and  we  question  whether  he 
himself  would  not  feel  gratified  in  hearing  his  reader,  after 
dwelling  with  admiration  on  the  proofs  of  his  greatness,  close 
the  volume  with  the  kind-hearted  phrase,  so  fondly  and  fa- 
miliarly ejaculated,  of  "  POOR  GOLDSMITH!" 


THE    TRAVELLER, 


TO  THE 

REV.    HENRY   GOLDSMITH. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  am  sensible  that  the  friendship  between  us  can  acquire 
no  new  force  from  the  ceremonies  of  a  dedication ;  and  per- 
haps it  demands  an  excuse  thus  to  prefix  your  name  to  my 
attempts,  which  you  decline  giving  with  your  own.  But  as  a 
part  of  this  poem  was  formerly  written  to  you  from  Switzer- 
land, the  whole  can  now,  with  propriety,  be  only  inscribed  to 
you.  It  will  also  throw  a  light  upon  many  parts  of  it,  when 
the  reader  understands  that  it  is  addressed  to  a  man  who, 
despising  fame  and  fortune,  has  retired  early  to  happiness 
and  obscurity  with  an  income  of  forty  pounds  a  year. 

I  now  perceive,  my  dear  brother,  the  wisdom  of  your  hum- 
ble choice.  You  have  entered  upon  a  sacred  office,  where 
the  harvest  is  great  and  the  labourers  are  but  few;  while  you 
have  left  the  field  of  ambition,  where  the  labourers  are  many 
and  the  harvest  not  worth  carrying  away.  But  of  all  kinds 
of  ambition — what  from  the  refinement  of  the  times,  from 
differing  systems  of  criticism,  and  from  the  divisions  of  party 
— that  which  pursues  poetical  fame  is  the  wildest. 

Poetry  makes  a  principal  amusement  among  unpolished 
nations;  but  in  a  country  verging  to  the  extremes  of  refine- 
ment, painting  and  music  come  in  for  a  share.  As  these 
offer  the  feeble  mind  a  less  laborious  entertainment,  they  at 
first  rival  poetry,  and  at  length  supplant  her :  they  engross 
all  that  favour  once  shown  to  her ;  and,  though  but  younger 
sisters,  seize  upon  the  elder's  birthright. 

Yet,  however  this  art  may  be  neglected  by  the  powerful, 
it  is  still  in  greater  danger  from  the  mistaken  efforts  of  the 

D 


DEDICATION. 

learned  to  improve  it.  What  criticisms  have  we  not  heard 
of  late  in  favour  of  blank  verse  and  pindaric  odes,  choruses, 
anapests  and  iambics,  alliterative  care  and  happy  negligence! 
Every  absurdity  has  now  a  champion  to  defend  it;  and  as  he 
is  generally  much  in  the  wrong,  so  he  has  always  much  to 
say — for  error  is  ever  talkative. 

But  there  is  an  enemy  to  this  art  still  more  dangerous:  I 
mean  party.  Party  entirely  distorts  the  judgment  and  de- 
stroys the  taste.  When  the  mind  is  once  infected  with  this 
disease,  it  can  only  find  pleasure  in  what  contributes  to  in- 
crease the  distemper.  Like  the  tiger,  that  seldom  desists 
from  pursuing  man  after  having  once  preyed  upon  human 
flesh,  the  reader  who  has  once  gratified  his  appetite  with 
calumny  makes  ever  after  the  most  agreeable  feast  upon 
murdered  reputation.  Such  readers  generally  admire  some 
half-witted  thing,  who  wants  to  be  thought  a  bold  man,  hav- 
ing lost  the  character  of  a  wise  one.  Him  they  dignify  with 
the  name  of  poet:  his  tawdry  lampoons  are*  called  satires; 
his  turbulence  is  said  to  be  force,  and  his  frenzy  fire. 

What  reception  a  poem  may  find  which  has  neither  abuse, 
party,  nor  blank  verse  to  support  it,  I  cannot  tell ;  nor  am  I 
solicitous  to  know.  My  aims  are  right.  Without  espousing 
the  cause  of  any  party,  I  have  attempted  to  moderate  the 
rage  of  all.  I  have  endeavoured  to  show  that  there  may  be 
equal  happiness  in  states  that  are  differently  governed  from 
our  own ;  that  every  state  has  a  particular  principle  of  hap- 
piness; and  that  this  principle  in  each  may  be  carried  to  a 
mischievous  excess.  There  are  few  can  judge  better  than 
yourself  how  far  these  positions  are  illustrated  in  this  poem. 
I  am,  Dear  Sir, 

Your  most  affectionate  brother, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


THE    TRAVELLER; 

OR, 

A     PROSPECT     OF     SOCIETY. 


REMOTE,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow — 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheldt  or  wandering  Po, 
Or  onward  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  door, 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies- 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 

My  heart,  untravell'd,  fondly  turns  to  thee  ; 

Still  to  my  Brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain, 

And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain.  10 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend: 
Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire ; 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair; 
Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown'd, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale,  20 

Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But  me,  not  destin'd  such  delights  to  share, 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and  care — 
ImpelPd  with  steps  unceasing  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good  that  mocks  me  with  the  view, 
That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies — 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own.  30 

Even  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend; 
And  placed  on  high,  above  the  storm's  career, 
Look  downward  where  an  hundred  realms  appear — 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler  pride. 

When  thus  Creation's  charms  around  combine, 
Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  pride  repine  ? 
,    Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 

That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vain  ?     40 
Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 


THE   TRAVELLER. 


53 


These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 

And  wiser  he  whose  sympathetic  mind 

Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 

Ye  glittering  towns,  with  wealth  and  splendour  crown'd, 

Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round, 

Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale, 

Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery  vale — 

For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine; 

Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine  !  50 


-•  <'"•'•     •& 


As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store, 
Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o'er — 
Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 
Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still — 
Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 
Pleas'd  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man  supplies,     f 


4  OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 

Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 

To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small ; 

And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene,  to  find 

Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consign'd,  60 

Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope  at  rest, 

May  gather  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below, 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  ? 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own, 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease; 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line, 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine,  70 

Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  al^the  good  they  gave. 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam ; 
His  first,  best  country  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind ; 
As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given, 
To  different  nations  makes  their  blessings  even.  so 

Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all, 
Still  grants  her  bliss  at  Labour's  earnest  call : 
With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 
On  Idra's  cliffs  as  Arno's  shelvy  side ; 
And  though  the  rocky  crested  summits  frown, 
These  rocks,  by  custom,  turn  to  beds  of  down. 
From  Art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent- 
Wealth,  commerce,  honour,  liberty,  content; 
Yet  these  each  other's  power  so  strong  contest 
I     That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest:  p 

W'here  wealth  and  freedom  reign  contentment  fails, 


THE  TRAVELLER.  55 

And  honour  sinks  where  commerce  long  prevails. 
i   Hence  every  state,  to  one  lov'd  blessing  prone, 
*  Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone  : 
Each  to  the  favourite  happiness  attends, 
And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends; 
Till,  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain, 
This  favourite  good  begets  peculiar  pain. 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer  eyes, 
And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it  lies :  roo 

Here  for  a  while  my  proper  cares  resign'd, 
Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind ; 
Like  yon  neglected  shrub,  at  random  cast, 
That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every  blast. 

Far  to  the  right,  where  Apennine  ascends, 
Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends; 
Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride, 
While  oft  some  temple's  mouldering  tops  between 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene.  no 

Could  Nature's  boimty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest. 
Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  were  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground ; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 
\Vhose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year; 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die ; 
These,  here  disporting,  own  the  kindred  soil, 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil;  120 

While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows, 
And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows; 
In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear — 
Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign : 
Though  poor,  luxurious;  though  submissive,  vain; 
Though  grave,  yet  trifling ;  zealous,  yet  untrue ; 
And  even  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 
All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 
That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  ; 


130 


THE   TKA  J  rE  /,  /.  E  K. 


57 


'  "if       ! 

-tkL=  ,>.M-~^ 


For  wealth  was  theirs — not  far  remov'd  the  date 
When  commerce  proudly  flourish'd  through  the  state. 
At  her  command  the  palace  learn'd  to  rise, 
Again  the  long-fallen  column  sought  the  skies, 
The  canvas  glow'd  beyond  even  nature  warm, 
The  pregnant  quarry  teem'd  with  human  form, 
Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  display'd  her  sail; 
While  nought  remain'd  of  all  that  riches  gave, 
But  towns  unmann'd  and  lords  without  a  slave : 
And  late  the  nation  found,  with  fruitless  skill, 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride: 
From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fallen  mind 


140 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 

An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 

Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  array'cl, 

The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade,  150 

Processions  fornvd  for  piety  and  love, 

A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 

By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguil'd ; 

The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child. 

Each  nobler  aim,  represt  by  long  control, 

Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 

While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  behind, 

In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind : 

As  in  those  domes,  where  Caesars  once  bore  sway, 

Defac'd  by  time  and  tottering  in  decay,  160 

There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 

The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed; 

And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger  pile, 

Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 

My  soul,  turn  from  them,  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display, 
Wliere  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansions  tread, 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread. 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford 
But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword ;  170 

No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 
But  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May  ; 
No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast, 
But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest, 
i        Yet  still,  even  here,  content  can  spread  a  charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 
Though  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feasts  though  small, 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 
Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head, 
To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed,  180 

No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal, 
To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal; 


THE   TRATELLER. 


59 


But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 
Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 
Cheerful  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breasts  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes ; 
With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 
Or  drives  his  venturous  ploughshare  to  the  steep ; 
Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way, 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 
At  night  returning,  every  labour  sped, 
He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed; 
Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children's  looks,  that  brighten  at  the  blaze ; 
While  his  lov'd  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board : 
And  haply  too  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 
With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 


190 


6o 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


ssr* 


Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 
And  even  those  ills  that  round  his  mansion  rise 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 
Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms, 
And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms ; 
And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 
Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother's  breast, 
So  the  loud  torrent  and  the  whirlwind's  roar 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assign'd; 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confin'd. 
Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due; 
If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few : 
For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redrest. 
Whence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing  science  flies, 
That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies. 
Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 
To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy ; 
Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to  flame, 


200 


2IO 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


6l 


~  -  ••' V 

K,}    .         .  -.    flaps*       *.A 

•:.    :         .  ,       tr^. 


Catch  every  nerve,  and  vibrate  through  the  frame  : 

Their  level  life  is  but  a  smouldering  fire, 

Unquench'd  by  want,  unfann'd  by  strong  desire ; 

Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 

On  some  high  festival  of  once  a  year, 

In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire, 

Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely  flow; 
Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low : 
^   For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 
Unalter'd,  unimprov'd  the  manners  run  ; 


220 


230 


52  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

And  love's  and  friendship's  finely  pointed  dart 

Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart 

Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 

May  sit,  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest ; 

But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 

Through  life's  more  cultur'd  walks,  and  charm  the  way, 

These,  far  dispers'd,  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 

To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 
I  turn;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain.  240 

Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleas'd  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please, 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire, 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And,  freshened  from  the  wave,  the  zephyr  flew ! 
And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  faltering  still, 
But  mock'd  all  tune,  and  marr'd  the  dancer's  skill, 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour.  25o 

Alike  all  ages:  dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze  ; 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill'd  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisk'd  beneath  the  burthen  of  threescore. 

So  blest  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  display; 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away. 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 

\  For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here: 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  even  imaginary  worth  obtains,  200 

Here  passes  current;  paid  from  hand  to  hand, 
It  shifts,  in  splendid  traffic,  round  the  land; 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise. 

y  They  please,  are  pleas'd ;  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 


THE  TRAVELLER.  63 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise; 
For  praise,  too  dearly  lov'd,  or  warmly  sought, 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought;  270 

And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
j  Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart ; 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lace; 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year: 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws, 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause.  280 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosom'd  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 
And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm,  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow, 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amid  the  watery  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore;  200 

While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile- 
Trie  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossom'd  vale, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain — 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 
Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 
And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain.  '3oo 

\  Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs, 


64 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 

Are  here  display'd.     Their  much-lov'd  wealth  imparts 

Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts; 

But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear, 

Even  liberty  itself  is  barter'd  here. 

At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies; 

The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys: 

A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves, 

Here  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves, 

And,  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform, 

Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

Heavens  !  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old — 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold, 
War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow ! 
How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now  ! 


310 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


Fir'd  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring; 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 
And  brighter  streams  than  fam'd  Hydaspes  glide. 
There,  all  around,  the  gentlest  breezes  stray; 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray ; 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combin'd : 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind. 
Stern  o'er  each  bosom  reason  holds  her  state, 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great. 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by; 
Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 
By  forms  unfashion'd,  fresh  from  Nature's  hand, 
Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 
True  to  imagin'd  right,  above  control ; 


320 


330 


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f  '       .  H     li 

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V-C  *  I 


E 


66  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

While  even  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan. 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,  Freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictur'd  here, 
Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear; 
Too  blest  indeed  were  such  without  alloy, 
But,  foster'd  even  by  freedom,  ills  annoy. 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie :          340 
The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone, 
All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  unknown. 
Here,  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held, 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repell'd; 
Ferments  arise,  imprison'd  factions  roar, 
Represt  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore, 
Till,  overwrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motions  stop,  or  frenzy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.     As  Nature's  ties  decay, 
As  duty,  love,  and  honour  fail  to  sway,  350 

Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 
Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone, 
And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown; 
Till  time  may  come  when,  stript  of  all  her  charms, 
The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nurse  of  arms, 
Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 
Where  kings  have  toil'd,  and  poets  wrote  for  fame, 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 
And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonour'd  die.  360 

Yet  think  not,  thus  when  Freedom's  ills  I  state,  ' 
I  mean  to  flatter  kings  or  court  the  great. 
Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire ! 
And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage  and  tyrant's  angry  steel ; 
Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


67 


By  proud  contempt  or  favour's  fostering  sun, 

Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure ! 

I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure :  37° 

For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil, 
[  That  those  who  think  must  govern  those  that  toil ; 

And  all  that  Freedom's  highest  aims  can  reach   . 
t  Is  but  to  lay  proportion'd  loads  on  each. 
*  Hence,  should  one  order  disproportion'd  grow, 

Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

O  then  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires, 

Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires ! 

Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  argis, 

Except  when  fast-approaching  danger  warms  :  380 

But,  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throne, 


68  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own  ; 

When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 

To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free ; 

Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw, 

Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law; 

The  wealth  of  climes  where  savage  nations  roam 

Pillag'd  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at  home; 

Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation  start, 

Tear  off  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart :  390 

Till  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 

I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,  Brother,  curse  with  me  that  baleful  hour 
When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power; 
And  thus,  polluting  honour  in  its  source, 
Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force. 
Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain's  peopled  shore, 
Her  useful  sons  exchang'd  for  useless  ore  ? 
Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste, 
Like  flaring  tapers  brightening  as  they  waste  ?  400 

Seen  opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain, 
Lead  stern  depopulation  in  her  train, 
And  over  fields  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
In  barren,  solitary  pomp  repose  ? 
Have  we  not  seen,  at  pleasure's  lordly  call, 
The  smiling,  long-frequented  village  fall  ? 
Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay'd, 
The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid, 
Forc'd  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train, 
To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main ;  410 

Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundering  sound  ? 

Even  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pilgrim  strays 
Through  tangled  forests,  and  through  dangerous  ways, 
Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim, 
And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  murderous  aim; 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


69 


There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise, 
The  pensive  exile,  bending  with  his  woe, 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go, 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories  shine, 
And  bids  his  bosom  sympathize  with  mine. 
Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind : 


420 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Why  have  I  stray'd  from  pleasure  and  repose, 
To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  ? 
In  every  government,  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure  ! 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign'd, 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find  : 
With  secret  course,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 
The  lifted  ax,  the  agonizing  wheel, 
Luke's  iron  crown,  and  Damiens'  bed  of  steel, 
To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known, 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience,  all  our  own. 


430 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE, 


TO 

SIR   JOSHUA   REYNOLDS. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  can  have  no  expectations,  in  an  address  of  this  kind, 
either  to  add  to  your  reputation  or  to  establish  my  own. 
You  can  gain  nothing  from  my  admiration,  as  I  am  ignorant 
of  that  art  in  which  you  are  said  to  excel ;  and  I  may  lose 
much  by  the  severity  of  your  judgment,  as  few  have  a  juster 
taste  in  poetry  than  you.  Setting  interest  therefore  aside,  to 
which  I  never  paid  much  attention,  I  must  be  indulged  at 
present  in  following  my  affections.  The  only  dedication 
I  ever  made  was  to  my  brother,  because  I  loved  him  better 
than  most  other  men.  He  is  since  dead.  Permit  me  to 
inscribe  this  poem  to  you. 

How  far  you  may  be  pleased  with  the  versification  and 
mere  mechanical  parts  of  this  attempt  I  do  not  pretend  to 
inquire;  but  I  know  you  will  object— ^and  indeed  several  of 
our  best  and  wisest  friends  concur  in  the  opinion^-that  the 
depopulation  it  deplores  is  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  the  dis- 
orders it  laments  are  only  to  be  found  in  the  poet's  own 
imagination.  To  this  I  can  scarce  make  any  other  answer 
,than  that  I  sincerely  believe  what  I  have  written ;  that  I  have 
taken  all  possible  pains,  in  my  country  excursions  for  these 
four  or  five  years  past,  to  be  certain  of  what  I  allege ;  and 
that  all  my  views  and  inquiries  have  led  me  to  believe  those 
miseries  real  which  I  here  attempt  to  display.  But  this  is 
not  the  place  to  enter  into  an  inquiry  whether  the  country  be 
depopulating  or  not;  the  discussion  would  take  up  much 
room,  and  I  should  prove  myself,  at  best,  an  indifferent  poli- 


74  DEDICATION. 

tician  to  tire  the  reader  with  a  long  preface  when  I  want  his 
unfatigued  attention  to  a  long  poem. 

In  regretting  the  depopulation  of  the  country,  I  inveigh 
against  the  increase  of  our  luxuries;  and  here  I  also  expect 
the  shout  of  modern  politicians  against  me.  For  twenty  or  / 
thirty  years  past  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  consider  luxury/ 
as  one  of  the  greatest  national  advantages;  and  all  thd 
wisdom  of  antiquity,  in  that  particular,  as  erroneous.  StilL 
however,  I  must  remain  a  professed  ancient  on  that  head, 
and  continue  to  think  those  luxuries  prejudicial  to  states  by 
which  so  many  vices  are  introduced  and  so  many  kingdoms 
have  been  undone.  Indeed,  so  much  has  been  poured  out 
of  late  on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  that  merely  for  the 
sake  of  novelty  and  variety  one  would  sometimes  wish  to 
be  in  the  right. 

I  am,  Dear  Sir, 

Your  sincere  friend, 

and  ardent  admirer, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


v& 


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'WEET  AUBURN  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  labouring  swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delay'd; 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene 
How  often  have  I  paus'd  on  every  charm, 
The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 


10 


76 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighbouring  hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 

How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

And  all  the  village  train  from  labour  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree; 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd,  20 

And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round! 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tir'd, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspir'd ; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down, 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face 

While  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place, 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove.        30 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  !  sports  like  these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to  please; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed ; 

These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain.  40 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But  chok'd  with  sedges  works  its  weedy  way; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  77 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries; 

Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 

And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall ; 

And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 

Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land.  50 

111  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade — 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made- 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroy'd,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man  : 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  requir'd,  but  gave  no  more;  60 

His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health, 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter'd;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain : 
Along  the  lawn  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose, 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room,  70 

Those  healthful  sports  that  grac'd  the  peaceful  scene, 
Liv'd  in  each  look  and  brighten'd  all  the  green — 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruin'd  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elaps'd,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew,        80 


78  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose. 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn'd  skill,          90 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 
And  as  an  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine  ! 
How  happy  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease ;  too 

Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep ; 
No  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate ; 
But  on  he  moves,  to  meet  his  latter  end-, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend, 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceiv'd  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way,  no 

And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's  close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 
There  as  I  pass'd,  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE. 


79 


The  mingling  notes  came  soften'd  from  below: 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young, 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled— 


120 


8o 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring ; 
She,  wretched  matron — forc'd  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn- 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain  ! 


•  - 


:'-••";/  5SwJfl?E 


. 


130 


Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smil'd, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year. 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  chang'd,  nor  wish'd  to  change,  his  place; 
Unpractis'd  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  o.ther  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 


140 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  81 

More  skill'd  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  reliev'd  their  pain ;  150 

The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 

The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 

Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away, 

Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 

Shoulder'd  his  crutch  and  show'd  how  fields  were  won. 

Pleas'd  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to  glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe;  160 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  even  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt  for  all : 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledg'd  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reprov'd  each  dull  delay, 
Allur'd  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way.  170 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood  :  at  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper'd  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 
And  fools  who  came  to  scoff  remain'd  to  pray.  i8a 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 

F 


82 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Even  children  follow'd,  with  endearing  wile, 

And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile  : 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest, 

Their  welfare  pleas'd  him,  and  their  cares  distrest. 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven: 

As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 


190 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE. 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilPd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 


-••   - 


84  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view; 

I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew  : 

Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 

The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 

Full  well  they  laugh'd  with  counterfeited  glee 

At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 

Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd. 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 

The  village  all  declar'd  how  much  he  knew; 

'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too, 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 

And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge.  210 

In  arguing  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 

For  even  though  vanquish'd  he  could  argue  still ; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 

Amaz'd  the  gazing  rustics  rang'd  around; 

And  still  they  gaz'd,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame :  the  very  spot, 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd,  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye,        220 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspir'd, 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retir'd, 
Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place  : 
The  whitewash'd  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door; 
The  chest  contriv'd  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day;  230 

The  pictures  plac\l  for  ornament  and  use, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


-*\*  -  •"?  T''C7x'i^vN  "«'  . 
--    -     ^Vw^>^3i*.v'  ,-- 


The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay, 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Rang'd  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 
Vain,  transitory  splendours  !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart. 


240 


86 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


.- 


Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 


250 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  87 

One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art 

Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 

The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway; 

Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 

Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfin'd. 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 

With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array'd,  260 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain; 

And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 

The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  an  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore;  270 

Hoards  even  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around ; 
Yet  count  our  gains  :  this  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied — 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds  : 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robb'd  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their  growth;  280 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies. 
While  thus  the  land  adorn'd  for  pleasure,  all 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 


88 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Slights  every  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  supplies, 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ;  290 

But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are  frail, 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress  : 

Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd ; 

In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'cl, 

But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise; 

While,  scourg'd  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band;  300 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 

The  country  blooms — a  garden,  and  a  grave. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Where  then,  ah  !  where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped  —  what  waits  him  there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combin'd 


89 


310 


'   \jm 


9o 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind; 

To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure  know, 

Extorted  from  his  fellow-creatures'  woe. 

Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 

There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade; 

Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 

There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 

The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 

Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train; 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ! 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?    Ah,  turn  thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 


320 


1.  •,!'  i 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE.  9I 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn;  330 

Now  lost  to  all — her  friends,  her  virtue  fled — 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 

And,  pinch'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread.  340 

Ah,  no  !     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charm'd  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore  : 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day; 
Those  matted  woods  whegs  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling;  35o 

Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crown'd, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravag'd  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene  ; 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green,  360 

The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  shelter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


ft&*    '  A,"'V, 


Good  Heaven !  what  sorrows  gloom'd  that  parting  day, 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main ; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepar'd  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 


370 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 

And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 

And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose, 

And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 

And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear; 

While  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 

In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  Luxury  !  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 


93 


380 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

How  ill  exchang'd  are  things  like  these  for  thee  ! 

How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 

Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 

Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 

Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own  :  390 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 

A  bloated  mass  of  rank,  unwieldy  woe; 

Till  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 

Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  Virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail, 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale,  400 

Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  Toil  and  hospitable  Care, 
And  kind  connubial  Tenderness,  are  there; 
And  Piety  with  wishes  plac'd  above, 
And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade, 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame  ;  410 

Dear,  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride, 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so, 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell !  and  O  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow,  420 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE. 

Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  the  inclement  clime; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possest, 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labour'd  mole  away; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


95 


430 


RETALIATION 


G 


RETALIATION: 


INCLUDING 

EPITAPHS   ON   THE  MOST  DISTINGUISHED   WITS   OF 

THIS   METROPOLIS. 


OF  old,  when  Scarron  his  companions  invited, 
Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was  united ; 
If  our  landlord  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  fish, 
Let  each  guest  bring  himself — and  he  brings  the  best  dish : 
Our  dean  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains ; 
Our  Burke  shall  be  tongue,  with  a  garnish  of  brains ; 
Our  Will  shall  be  wild  fowl,  of  excellent  flavour, 
And  Dick  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  their  savour ; 
Our  Cumberland's  sweetbread  its  place  shall  obtain ; 
And  Douglas  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain;  10 

,  Our  Garrick's  a  salad,  for  in  him  we  see 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree ; 
To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am, 
That  Ridge  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  is  lamb; 
That  Hickey's  a  capon;  and,  by  the  same  rule, 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fool. 
At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast, 
Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last  ? 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine  !  let  me  sit  while  I'm  able, 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table ;  =o 

Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head. 
Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the  dead. 


I00  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Here  lies  the  good  dean,  reunited  to  earth, 
Who  mix'd  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with  mirth : 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt — 
At  least,  in  six  weeks,  I  could  not  find  'em  out; 
Yet  some  have  declar'd,  and  it  can't  be  denied  'em, 
That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  'em. 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too  much ;  30 

Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrow'd  his  mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind ; 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his  throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  to  lend  him  a  vote ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of  dining; 
Though  equal  to  ail  things,  for  all  things  unfit ; 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit, 
For  a  patriot  too  cool,  for  a  drudge  disobedient^™, 
1  And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient.  I  40 

~In  short  'twas  his  fate,  unemploy'd,  or  in  place7"si>, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

Here  lies  honest  William,  whose  heart  was  a  mint, 
While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the  good  that  was  in't : 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  forc'd  him  along, 
His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong ; 
Still  aiming  at  honour,  yet  fearing  to  roam — 
The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove  home. 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits?  alas !  he  had  none; 
What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were  his  own.  50 

Here  lies  honest  Richard,  whose  fate  I  must  sigh  at; 
Alas,  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet ! 
What  spirits  were  his !  what  wit  and  what  whim  ! 
Now  breaking  a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a  limb; 
Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball; 
Now  teasing  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all ! 
In  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 


RE  TALI  A  TION.  T  c  i 

That  we  wished  him  full  ten  times  a-day  at  Old  Nick; 

But,  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein, 

As  often  we  wish'd  to  have  Dick  back  again.  60 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts, 
The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are. 
His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 
And  comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine ; 
Like  a  tragedy  queen  he  has  dizen'd  her  out, 
Or  rather  like  tragedy  giving  a  rout. 
His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of  virtues  and  feelings,  that  folly  grows  proud ;  70 

And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleas'd  with  their  own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught? 
Or  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault  ? 
Say,  was  it  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few, 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself? 

Here  Douglas  retires,  from  his  toils  to  relax, 
The  scourge  of  impostors,  the  terror  of  quacks.  s0 

Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  ye  quacking  divines, 
Come,  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant  reclines ! 
When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne, 
I  fear'd  for  your  safety,  I  fear'd  for  my  own ; 
But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector, 
Our  Dodds  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenricks  shall  lecture, 
Macpherson  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style, 
Our  Townshend  make  speeches,  and  I  shall  compile ; 
New  Lauders  and  Bowers  the  Tweed  shall  cross  over, 
No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover;  90 

Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark, 
Ahd  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman,  and  cheat  in  the  dark. 


•  •  • . 


102  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man  : 
As  an  actor,  confess'd  without  rival  to  shine; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line ; 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colours  he  spread 
And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red.  IQO 

On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting ; 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 
He  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day. 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick : 
He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleas'd  he  could  whistle  them  back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallow'd  what  came, 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame;  no 

Till  his  relish  grown  callous,  almost  to  disease, 
Who  pepper'd  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind, 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  ye  Woodfalls  so  grave, 
What  a  commerce  was  yours  while  you  got  and  you  gave, 
How  did  Grub-street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  rais'd, 
While  he  was  be-Roscius'd,  and  you  were  beprais'd ! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 
To  act  as  an  angel,  and  mix  with  the  skies  :  120 

Those  poets,  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will; 
Old  Shakespeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 
And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt,  pleasant  creature, 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good-nature ; 
He  cherish'd  his  friend,  and  he  relish'd  a  bumper; 


RETALIATION, 


103 


Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 

Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser  ? 

I  answer,  no,  no — for  he  always  was  wiser.  130 

Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 

His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that. 

Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 

And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ?    Ah,  no  ! 

Then  what  was  his  failing  ?   come,  tell  it,  and  burn  ye ! 

He  was — could  he  help  it  ? — a  special  attorney. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind  : 


104  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand; 

His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland ;  140 

Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 

His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 

To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 

When  they  judg'd  without  skill  he  was  still  hard  of  hearing; 

When  they  talk'd  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff, 

He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff. 

By  flattery  unspoil'd— 


POSTSCRIPT. 

HERE  Whitefoord  reclines,  and  deny  it  who  can, 
Though  he  merrily  liv'd,  he  is  now  a  grave  man. 
Rare  compound  of  oddity,  frolic,  and  fun ! 
Who  relish'd  a  joke,  and  rejoic'd  in  a  pun; 
Whose  temper  was  generous,  open,  sincere; 
A  stranger  to  flattery,  a  stranger  to  fear; 
Who  scatter'd  around  wit  and  humour  at  will; 
Whose  daily  bons  mots  half  a  column  might  fill ; 
A  Scotchman,  from  pride  and  from  prejudice  free; 
A  scholar,  yet  surely  no  pedant  was  he.  10 

What  pity,  alas  !  that  so  liberal  a  mind 
Should  so  long  be  to  newspaper  essays  confin'd; 
Who  perhaps  to  the  summit  of  science  could  soar, 
Yet  content  "if  the  table  he  set  on  a  roar;" 
Whose  talents  to  fill  any  station  were  fit, 
Yet  happy  if  Woodfall  confessed  him  a  wit. 

Ye  newspaper  witlings !  ye  pert  scribbling  folks  ! 
Who  copied  his  squibs  and  re-echo'd  his  jokes; 
Ye  tame  imitators,  ye  servile  herd,  come, 
Still  follow  your  master,  and  visit  his  tomb  : 
To  deck  it  bring  with  you  festoons  of  the  vine, 
And  copious  libations  bestow  on  his  shrine; 


POSTSCRIPT. 


Then  strew  all  around  it — you  can  do  no  less — 
Cross-readings,  ship-news,  and  mistakes  of  the  press. 

Merry  Whitefoord,  farewell !  for  thy  sake  I  admit 
That  a  Scot  may  have  humour — I  had  almost  said  wit : 
This  debt  to  thy  memory  I  cannot  refuse, 
"  Thou  best-humour'd  man  with  the  worst-humour'd  muse." 


THE    CLUB. 


NOTES. 


LIST  OF  ABBREVIATIONS. 

A.  S.,  Anglo-Saxon. 

A.  V.,  the  Authorized  Version  of  the  Bible. 

Adv.  of  L.,  Bacon's  A  dvancement  of  Learning. 

An.  Nat.,  Goldsmith's  Animated  Nature. 

Arc.,  Milton's  A rcades. 

C.,  Craik's  English  of  Shakespeare  (Rolfe's  edition). 

C.  T.,  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales. 
Cf.  (confer),  compare. 

D.  V.,  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village. 
Foil.,  following. 

F.  Q.,  Spenser's  Faerie  Q^tcene. 
Fr.,  French. 

H.,  Haven's  Rhetoric  (Harper's  edition). 

Hales,  Longer  English  Poems,  edited  by  Rev.  J.  W.  Hales  (London). 
P.  L.,  Milton's  Paradise  Lost. 

Shakes.  Gr.,  Abbott's  Shakespearian  Grammar  (the  references  are  to  sections,  not 
pages). 

Shep.  Kal.,  Spenser's  Shepherd's  Kalendar. 

Trav.,  Goldsmith's  Traveller. 

V.  of  W.,  Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

Wb.,  Webster's  Dictionary  (last  revised  quarto  edition). 

Wh.,  Whately's  Rhetoric  (Harper's  edition). 

Wore.,  Worcester's  Dictionary  (quarto  edition). 

Other  abbreviations  (names  of  books  in  the  Bible,  plays  of  Shakespeare,  etc.),  need  no 
explanation. 


NOTES. 


THE  TRAVELLER. 

THIS  poem,  as  we  learn  from  the  Dedication,  was  begun  in  Switzerland 
in  1755,  but  it  was  not  completed  until  1764.  It  was  published  in  De- 
cember of  that  year,  and  was  the  earliest  production  to  which  Goldsmith 
prefixed  his  name.*  Johnson  introduced  it  to  the  good  opinion  of  the 
public  by  a  notice  in  the  Critical  Review  (December,  1764).  The  article, 
which  is  largely  made  up  of  quotations  from  the  poem,  ends  thus  :  "  Such 
is  the  poem  on  which  we  now  congratulate  the  public,  as  on  a  production  to 
which,  since  the  death  of  Pope,  it  will  not  be  easy  to  find  anything  equal." 
Its  success  was  immediate  ;t  four  editions  being  called  for  within  eight 
months,  and  five  more  during  the  author's  lifetime, 

"The  nominal  object  of  the  poem,"  says  Mr.  Hales,  "is  to  show  that, 
as  far  as  happiness  is  concerned,  one  form  of  government  is  as  good  as 
another.  This  was  a  favourite  paradox  with  Dr.  Johnson.  Whether  he 
or  Goldsmith  really  believed  it,  may  be  reasonably  doubted.  Of  course 
it  is  true  that  no  political  arrangements,  however  excellent,  can  secure  for 
any  individual  citizen  immunity  from  misery  ;  it  is  true  also  that  different 
political  systems  may  suit  different  peoples,  and,  further,  that  every  polit- 
ical system  has  its  special  dangers  ;  and  it  is  true,  again,  that  what  con- 
stitution may  be  adapted  for  what  people  is  often  a  question  of  the  pro- 
foundest  difficulty ;  it  is  true,  lastly,  that  no  civil  constitution  relieves 
any  one  enjoying  the  benefit  of  it  from  his  own  proper  duties  and  re- 

*  The  title-page  of  the  first  edition  reads  thus :  "  The  Traveller,  or  a  Prospect  of  So- 
ciety. A  Poem.  Inscribed  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Henry  Goldsmith.  By  Oliver  Goldsmith, 
M.B.  London  :  Printed  for  J.  Newbery,  in  St.  Paul's  Church-yard,  MDCCLXV." 

t  The  appearance  of  "The  Traveller"  at  once  altered  Goldsmith's  intellectual  stand- 
ing in  the  estimation  of  society ;  but  its  effect  upon  the  Club,  if  we  may  judge  from  the 
account  given  by  Hawkins,  was  almost  ludicrous.  They  were  lost  in  astonishment  that 
a  "newspaper  essayist"  and  "bookseller's  drudge"  should  have  written  such  a  poem. 
On  the  evening  of  its  announcement  to  them  Goldsmith  had  gone  away  early,  after  "  rat- 
tling away  as  usual,"  and  they  knew  not  how  to  reconcile  his  heedless  garrulity  with 
the  serene  beauty,  the  easy  grace,  the  sound  good-sense,  and  the  occasional  elevation  of 
his  poetry.  They  could  scarcely  believe  that  such  magic  numbers  had  flowed  from  a  man 
to  whom  in  general,  says  Johnson,  "it  was  with  difficulty  they  could  give  a  hearing." 
"  Well,"  exclaimed  Chamier,"  I  do  believe  he  wrote  this  poem  himself,  and,  let  me  tell 
you,  that  is  believing  a  great  deal." — IRVING. 


IIO  NOTES. 

sponsibilities ;  but  it  is  assuredly  not  true  that  there  is  no  relation  what- 
ever between  the  government  of  a  country  and  the  happiness  of  its  in- 
habitants. A  government  can,  as  it  pleases,  or  according  to  its  enlight- 
enment, make  circumstances  favourable  or  unfavourable  to  individual  de- 
velopment and  happiness.  .  .  .  Fortunately  one's  enjoyment  of  the  poem 
does  not  depend  on  the  accuracy  of  the  creed  it  professes." 

THE  DEDICATION. — In  the  first  edition  the  second  paragraph  is  as 
follows : 

"  I  now  perceive,  my  dear  brother,  the  wisdom  of  your  humble  choice. 
You  have  entered  upon  a  sacred  office,  while  you  have  left  the  field  of 
ambition,  where  the  labourers  are  many,  and  the  harvest  not  worth  carry- 
ing away.  But  of  all  kinds  of  ambition,  as  things  are  now  circumstanced, 
perhaps  that  which  pursues  poetical  fame  is  the  wildest.  What  from 
the  increased  refinement  of  the  times,  from  the  diversity  of  judgments 
produced  by  opposing  systems  of  criticism,  and  from  the  more  prevalent 
divisions  of  opinion  influenced  by  party,  the  strongest  and  happiest  efforts 
can  expect  to  please  but  in  a  very  narrow  circle.  Though  the  poet  were 
as  sure  of  his  aim  as  the  imperial  archer  of  antiquity,  who  boasted  that 
he  never  missed  the  heart,  yet  would  many  of  his  shafts  now  fly  at  ran- 
dom, for  the  heart  is  too  often  in  the  wrong  place." 

There  are  a  few  verbal  variations  in  other  parts  of  the  Dedication,  but 
none  worth  mentioning,  except,  perhaps,  one  in  the  last  paragraph — "  that 
every  state  has  a  peculiar  principle  of  happiness  ;  and  that  this  principle 
in  each,  and  in  our  own  in  particular,  may  be  carried  to  a  mischievous 


excess." 


I.  Slow.  At  the  first  meeting  of  the  Literary  Club  after  the  publication 
of  the  poem,  Chamier  said  to  Goldsmith  :  "  What  do  you  mean  by  the 
last  word  in  the  first  line  of  your  '  Traveller,' '  remote,  unfriended,  solita- 
ry, slow  T  do  you  mean  tardiness  of  locomotion  ?" — "  Yes,"  replied  Gold- 
smith, inconsiderately,  being  probably  flurried  at  the  moment.  "No, 
sir,"  interposed  his  protecting  friend,  Johnson,  "  you  did  not  mean  tardi- 
ness of  locomotion ;  you  meant  that  sluggishness  of  mind  which  comes 
upon  a  man  in  solitude." — "Ah,"  exclaimed  Goldsmith,  "that  was  what 
I  meant."  Chamier  immediately  believed  that  Johnson  himself  had  writ- 
ten the  line,  and  a  rumour  became  prevalent  that  he  was  the  author  of 
many  of  the  finest  passages.  This  was  ultimately  set  at  rest  by  Johnson 
himself,  who  marked  with  a  pencil  all  the  verses  he  had  contributed,  nine  in 
number — the  42oth,  and  the  last  ten  lines,  except  the  435th  and  the  436th. 

3.  Carinthia  is  a  province  of  Austria,  east  of  the  Tyrol.  Goldsmith 
visited  it  in  1755. 

8.  UntravelFd.  That  has  not  travelled.  In  "an  untravelled  path," 
etc.,  the  word  is  used  in  its  ordinary  passive  sense.  Cf.  learned  in  "a 
learned  man,"  well-behaved  (in  Othello,  iv.  2,  we  find  "  How  have  I  been  be- 
haved?"), well-spoken  ("For  Clarence  is  well-spoken,"  Richard  III.  i. 
3),  well-read  ("a  well-read  man"),  etc.  It  seems  to  us  that  mistaken  in 
"  You  are  mistaken,"  which  is  condemned  by  some  of  the  grammar- 
makers,  is  another  example  of  the  same  kind. 


THE  TRAVELLER.  m 

10.  Goldsmith  has  the  same  metaphor  (H.  p.  102)  in  the  Citizen  of  the 
World,  iii. :  "  The  farther  I  travel,  I  feel  the  pain  of  separation  with 
stronger  force ;  those  ties  that  bind  me  to  my  native  country  and  you 
are  still  unbroken.  By  every  remove  I  only  drag  a  greater  length  of 
chain."  Cf.  also  Gibber,  Com.  Lover :  "  When  I  am  with  Florimel,  it  [my 
heart]  is  still  your  prisoner,  it  only  drags  a  longer  chain  after  it." 

13.  Cf.  D.  V.  149-162. 

15.  Want  and  pain.     A  common  form  of  metonymy.     H.  p.  78. 

17.  Crowned.  Cf.  Ps.  Ixv.  n.  The  ist  ed.  reads,  '*  Blest  be  those 
feasts  where  mirth  and  peace  abound." 

23.  [Of  what  verb  is  me  the  object  ?] 

26.  Cf.  "  A  Letter  from  a  Traveller"  in  The  Bee,  no.  i :  "When  will 
my  restless  disposition  give  me  leave  to  enjoy  the  present  hour  ?    When 
at  Lyons,  I  thought  all  happiness  lay  beyond  the  Alps ;  when  in  Italy,  I 
found  myself  still  in  want  of  something,  and  expected  to  leave  solitude 
behind  me  by  going  into  Roumelia ;  and  now  you  find  me  turning  back, 
still  expecting  ease  everywhere  but  where  I  am." 

27.  Like  tlie  circle,  etc.     For  the  mixture  of  metaphor  and  simile,  see 
Wh.  p.  198.      Cf.  V.  of  W.  ch.  xxix,:  "Death,  the   only  friend  of  the 
wretched,  for  a  little  while  mocks  the  weary  traveller  with  the  view,  and 
like  his  horizon  still  flies  before  him." 

32.  /  sit  me  down.     This  reflexive  use  of  sit  is  not  unusual  in  our  old 
writers,  and  is  recognized  by  Wb.  and  Wore.     Some  of  the  grammars 
give  it  as  an  example  of  false  syntax,  and  would  make  it  "set  me  down."  • 
Cf.  the  French  s^asseoir.     The  use  of  the  personal  pronoun  for  the  re- 
flexive is  common  in  Elizabethan  and  earlier  English.     Cf.  Milton,  P.  L. 
ix.  1 121  :  "They  sat  them  down  to  weep,"  etc.     Hales  says  :  "  In  these 
and  all  such  phrases  the  pronoun  is  the  ethic  dative,  as  in  '  he  plucked 
me  ope  his  doublet,'*  etc." 

33.  Above  the  storm's  career.     Cf.  D.  V.  190. 

34.  An  hundred.     Cf.  D.  V.  93  :  "  an  hare."     As  Hales  remarks,  our 
present  rule  that  a  rather  than  an  is  to  be  used  before  a  word  beginning 
with  a  consonant  or  a  sounded  h  is  of  comparatively  modern  date.      In 
A.  S.  the  shortened  form  does  not  occur ;  in  mediaeval  writers  an  is  the 
more  common  form.     The  distinction  between  the  numeral  and  the  ar- 
ticle was  not  fairly  established  before  Chaucer's  day.     He  commonly 
uses  an  before  h,  as  "an  hare"  (C.  T.  686),  "  an  holy  man"  (Id.  5637),  etc. 
In  the  A.  V.  we  have  "an  house"  (i  Kings  ii.  24,  etc.),  "an  husband" 
(yVww.xxx. 6,  etc.),  but  elsewhere  "a  husband,"  "an  hundred,"  "an  host," 
"an  hand,"  "a  harp"  (i  Chron.  xxv.  3,  but  "an  harp,"  i  Sam.  xvi.  16),  "a 
hammer"  (Jer.  xxiii.  29,  but  "an  hammer,"  Judg.  iv. 2 1),  "a  high  wall," 
"  an  high  hand,"  etc.     Shakespeare's  usage  is  pretty  much  the  same  as 
that  of  our  day  ;  as  "  a  hawk,  a  horse,  or  a  husband  "  (Much  Ado,  iii.  4), 
"  a  hare  "  (i  Hen.  IV.  i.  3),  etc. 

38.  The  first  ed.  reads  as  follows  : 

*  Shakes.  J.  C.  i.  2.  Here,  as  in  Mer.  of  Ven.  i.  3,  "The  skilful  shepherd  pill'd  me 
certain. wands,"  the  me  is  clearly  expletive  (like  the  Latin  "  ethical  dative"),  but  "  sit  me 
down"  seems  to  us  a  different  construction.  Abbott  recognizes  both  in  his  Shakes.  Gr. 
See  §§  220,  223. 


II2  NOTES. 

"Amidst  the  store  'twere  thankless  to  repine. 
'Twere  affectation  all,  and  school-taught  pride, 
To  spurn  the  splendid  things  by  Heaven  supply' d. 
Let  school-taught  pride,"  etc. 

41.  School-taught  pride.     The  pride  which  the  Stoic  felt  in  his  conquest 
of  himself  and  in  his  superiority  to  the  casualties  of  life. 

42.  These  little  things.    Those  which  "  make  each  humbler  bosom  vain." 
45-49.  See  lines  34-36.     For  the  figures  see  H.  pp.  153,  156. 

48.  Ye  bending  swains.  Stooping  to  their  work.  Swain  was,  as  Hales 
remarks,  "the  poet's  word  for  peasant  in  the  last  century."  It  is  by  no 
means  rare  in  earlier  writers  (Shakespeare  uses  it  some  twenty-five  times), 
but  in  Goldsmith's  day  it  had  to  do  duty  on  all  occasions.  On  dress  cf. 
Gen.  ii.  n. 

50.  This  is  the  reading  of  the  ist  and  of  all  the  modern  editions,  but 
some  of  the  earlier  ones  (the  I3th  among  them)  have  "  Creation's  tenant, 
all  the  world  is  mine." 

52.  Recounts.     In  its  literal  sense  of  "counts  again." 

57.  Prevails.    That  is,  "will  out."    Sorrows  fall  may  mean,  "fall  upon 
or  oppress  the   heart ;"   or  possibly  sorrows  =  "  signs  of  sorrow,  /'.  e. 
tears,"  as  Hales  explains  it. 

58.  {To  see.    Would  this  use  of  the  infinitive  be  allowable  in  prose? 
Cf.  Shakes.  Gr.  356.]     The  1st  ed.  has  "  sum  of  human  bliss." 

60.  Consigned.     Assigned,  appropriated. 

66.  The  ist  ed.  reads,  "  Boldly  asserts  that  country  for  his  own ;"  and 
in  68,  "  And  live-long  nights,"  etc. 

69.  The  line.     The  equator. 

70.  Palmy  wine.     Liquor  made  from  the  sap  of  the  palm. 
73.  The  ist  ed.  has  "  Nor  less  the  patriot's  boast,"  etc. 
75,  foil.    The  ist  ed.  reads  thus  : 

"And  yet,  perhaps,  if  states  with  states  we  scan, 
Or  estimate  their  bliss  on  Reason's  plan, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  and  though  fools  contend, 
We  still  shall  find  uncertainty  suspend, 
Find  that  each  good,  by  Art  or  Nature  given, 
To  these  or  those,  but  makes  the  balance  even : 
Find  that  the  bliss  of  all  is  much  the  same, 
And  patriotic  boasting  reason's  shame." 

Bliss,  by  the  way,  is  a  pet  word  with  Goldsmith. 

77.  [What  difference  in  the  meaning  would  will,  instead  of  shall,  make  ?] 
79,  80.  The  pointing  is  according  to  the  early  editions.     The  lines  are 

often  printed  thus  : 

"As  different  good,  by  Art  or  Nature  given 
To  different  nations,  makes  their  blessings  even." 

83.  With  food,  etc.     This  couplet  is  not  found  in  the  ist  ed. 

84.  Idra's  cliffs.     Idria  is  a  town  among  the  mountains  of  Carniola, 
1542  feet  above  the  sea.    The  neighbourhood  is  famous  for  its  quicksilver 
mines. 

Arnd's  shelvy  side.  That  is,  its  gently  sloping  side.  Cf.  Merry  Wives, 
iii.  5  :  "  I  had  been  drowned,  but  that  the  shore  was  shelvy  and  shallow." 

85.  Rocky  crested.     Virtually  one  word,  and  sometimes  printed  with 


THE  TRAVELLER.  H3 

the  hyphen.     In  the  ist  ed.  this  line  reads,  "And  though  rough  rocks  or 
gloomy  summits  frown." 

87.  Art.     Used  in  its  wider  sense,  in  antithesis  to  "  Nature"  (81).     In 
146  and  304  arts  —  the  fine  arts. 

89.  Strong.     The  adjective  used  adverbially,  as  often  in  poetry. 

90.  Either.     The  word  properly  means  only  "one  of  two"  but  is  often 
used  carelessly  as  here,  even  by  good  writers.     Bacon  (quoted  by  John- 
son) has  "  either  of  the  three."     Cf.  I  Kings  xviii.  27,  and  neither  in  Rom. 
viii.  38.     See  also  quotation  from  Addison  below  (129).     In  the  present 
passage,  as  Hales  suggests,  "perhaps  either  may  be  justified  by  supposing 
the  'blessings'  just  enumerated  to  be  considered  as  divided  in  a  twofold 
manner :  (i.)  the  one  prevailing ;  (ii.)  the  others,  which  are  cast  into  the 
shade  by  that  prevailing  one." 

91.  Where  wealth,  etc.     This  couplet  is  not  in  the  ist  ed. 

92.  And  honour  sinks.     Wordsworth,  in  one  of  his  Sonnets,  says  : 

"Ennobling  thoughts, depart 

When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 
The  student's  bower  for  gold." 

98.  Peculiar  pain.    Its  proper  pain,  or  that  peculiar  to  itself.    Cf.  Gray, 
Ode  on  the  Pleaszire  arising  from  Vicissitude : 

"Still  where  rosy  pleasure  leads 
See  a  kindred  grief  pursue." 

101.  My  proper  cares.     My  personal  cares. 
105.  Apennine.     The  singular  poetically  used  for  the  plural. 
108.  In  gay  theatric  pride.    "  The  stage  often  borrows  similes  and  met- 
aphors from   nature ;    here   nature   is    made  indebted   to   the    stage  !" 
(Hales).    Cf.  Virgil,  </£n.  i.  164  :  "  Silvis  scaena  coruscis  ;"  and  sEn.  v. 
288: 

— "  quern  collibus  undique  curvis 
Cingebant  silvae,  mediaque  in  valle  theatri 
Circus  erat ;" 

also  Seneca,  Troades,  1125  :  "Crescit  more  theatri." 
in.  Cf.  Virgil's  panegyric  on  Italy,  Geo.  ii.  136-176. 
1 1 8.  Vernal  lives.     Short  as  the  spring. 

121.  Gelid.     Not  a  common  word  in  English  poetry.     Thomson  (Sum- 
mer) has  "  gelid  founts,"  and  (Autumn')  "gelid  pores."     It  is  not  found  in 
Shakes,  (though  he  quotes  the  Latin  "gdidus  timor"  in  2  Hen.  VI.  iv.  I, 
and  "gelida  umbra"  in  L.  L.  L.  iv.  2),  or  Milton,  or  Tennyson. 

122.  To  winnow  fragrance.     To  waft,  or  diffuse  it. 

123.  Sense.     The  senses. 

124.  The  ist  and  I3th  eds.  read,  "all  this  nation  knows;"  and  two 
lines  below,  "Men  seem." 

127.  Manners.     In  the  sense  of  the  Latin  mores.     Cf.  Wordsworth, 
Sonnet  to  Milton : 

"And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power." 

128.  For  the  figure  see  H.  p.  118. 

129.  Zealous.     In  a  religious  sense.     Cf.  Addison,  Spectator,  no.  185  : 
"  I  would  have  every  zealous  man  examine  his  heart  thoroughly,  and  I 

H 


II4  NOTES. 

believe  he  will  often  find  that  what  he  calls  a  zeal  for  his  religion  is  either 
pride,  interest,  or  ill-nature." 

133.  Not  far  removed  the  date.  The  ist  and  I3th,  and  some  modern 
editions,  have  "nor  far  removed."  Venice,  Florence,  Genoa,  and  Pisa 
attained  their  commercial  prime  in  the  I5th  century. 

136.  Long-fallen.  That  is,  since  the  old  Roman  days.  We  need  not 
give  a  list  of  the  Italian  architects,  painters,  and  sculptors  alluded  to  in 
these  lines. 

139.  "Two  of  the  main  causes,  certainly,  of  the  decay  of  Italian  com- 
merce were  the  discovery  of  America  and  that  of  the  sea-route  to  India" 
(Hales). 

140.  The  ist  and  I3th  eds.  read,  "  Soon  Commerce  turn'd  on  other 
shores  her  sail."     The  next  two  lines  are  not  in  the  ist  ed. 

143.  Skill.     In  the  old  sense  of  knowledge.     It  was  also  used  as  a 
verb  —  know,  understand.     See  i  Kings  v.  6 ;  2  Chron.  ii.  7,  8,  and  xxxiv. 
12.     Bacon  (Adv.  of  L.  i.  7,  12)  translates  "  Sullam  nescisse  litteras"  by 
"  Sylla  could  not  skill  of  letters." 

144.  Cf.  D.  V.  389-394 ;  also  Cit.  of  World,  i. :  "  In  short,  the  state  re- 
sembled one  of  those  bodies  bloated  with  disease,  whose  bulk  is  only  a 
symptom  of  its  wretchedness ;  their  former  opulence  only  rendered  them 
more  impotent." 

145.  The  ist  ed.  reads  as  follows  : 

"Yet  though  to  fortune  lost,  here  still  abide 
Some  splendid  arts,  the  wrecks  of  former  pride  ; 
From  which  the  feeble  heart,"  etc. 

150.  Cf.  Pres.  State  of  Learning:  "  Where,  in  the  midst  of  porticos, 
processions,  and  cavalcades,  abbes  turn  shepherds  ;  and  shepherdesses, 
without  sheep,  indulge  their  innocent  drvertimenti" 

153.  Irving  (p.  160)  says  :  "We  hear  much  about  'poetic  inspiration,' 
and  the  'poet's  eye  in  a  fine  phrensy  rolling;'  but  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
gives  an  anecdote  of  Goldsmith  while  engaged  upon  his  poem,  calculated 
to  cure  our  notions  about  the  ardour  of  composition.  Calling  upon  the 
poet  one  day,  he  opened  the  door  without  ceremony,  and  found  him  in 
the  double  occupation  of  turning  a  couplet  and  teaching  a  pet  dog  to  sit 
upon  his  haunches.  At  one  time. he  would  glance  his  eye  at  his  desk, 
and  at  another  shake  his  finger  at  the  dog  to  make  him  retain  his  posi- 
tion. The  last  lines  on  the  p^e  were  still  wet ;  they  form  part  of  the 
description  of  Italy : 

'  By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguiled, 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child.' 

Goldsmith,  with  his  usual  good-humour,  joined  in  the  laugh  caused  by 
his  whimsical  employment,  and  acknowledged  that  his  boyish  sport  with 
the  dog  suggested  the  stanza." 

After  the  I54th  line,  the  ist  ed.  reads, 

"At  sports  like  these,  while  foreign  arms  advance, 
In  passive  ease  they  leave  the  world  to  chance. 
When  struggling  Virtue  sinks  by  long  controul, 
She  leaves  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul  ;" 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


The  I3th  ed.  reads  thus  : 

"At  Sports  like  these  when  foreign  Arms  advance, 
In  passive  Ease  they  leave  the  World  to  Chance. 
When  noble  Aims  have  suffer' d  long  Controul, 
They  sink  at  last,  or  feebly  man  the  Soul, 
When  low  Delights,"  etc. 

156.  Feebly  mans  the  soul.  The  metaphor  of  a  vessel  is  continued  in 
this  expression. 

159.  Domes.  In  its  familiar  poetic  sense  (its  original  one,  by  the  way, 
from  Latin  damns]  of  house,  mansion,  palace,  etc.  Cf.  D.  V.  319. 

167.  Bleak.  Transferred,  by  metonymy,  from  the  country  to  its  inhabit- 
ants. The  word  (akin  to  bleach]  originally  meant  pale,  and  was  applied 
to  persons.  Mansions  is  the  original  reading,  though  mansion  (which  is 
Masson's  reading  in  the  Globe  ed.)  would  be  better — in  its  literal  sense 
(Latin  manere]  of  an  abiding-place. 

In  this  description  of  Switzerland  it  will  be  observed  that  there  is  no 
appreciation  of  the  wild  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  scenery  which  attract 
the  throngs  of  tourists  in  our  day.  Cf.  Macaulay,  Hist,  of  Eng.  chap.  13  : 
"  Goldsmith  was  one  of  the  very  few  Saxons  who,  more  than  a  century 
ago,  ventured  to  explore  the  Highlands.  He  was  disgusted  by  the  hide- 
ous wilderness,  and  declared  that  he  greatly  preferred  the  charming  coun- 
try round  Leyden,  the  vast  expanse  of  verdant  meadow,  and  the  villas 
with  their  statues  and  grottoes,  trim  flower-beds  and  rectilinear  avenues. 
Yet  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  the  author  of  The  Traveller  and  The  De- 
serted Village  was  naturally  inferior  in  taste  and  sensibility  to  the  thou- 


n6  NOTES. 

sands  of  clerks  and  milliners  who  are  now  thrown  into  raptures  by  the 
sight  of  Loch  Katrine  and  Loch  Lomond." 

Cf.  also  what  Ruskin  (Modern  Painters,  vol.  iii.)  says  of  the  Greeks — 
their  "  fear  of  all  that  was  disorderly,  unbalanced,  and  rugged  ;"  that 
"  every  Homeric  landscape,  intended  to  be  beautiful,  is  composed  of  a 
fountain,  a  meadow,  and  a  shady  grove  ;"  and  again  of  "  the  mediasval 
mind  as  agreeing  wholly  with  the  ancients,  in  holding  that  flat  land, 
brooks,  and  groves  of  aspens  compose  the  pleasant  places  of  the  earth, 
and  that  rocks  and  mountains  are,  for  inhabitation,  altogether  to  be  rep- 
robated and  detested."  Of  the  Divina  Commedia  he  says:  "In  no 
part  of  the  poem  do  we  find  allusion  to  mountains  in  any  other  than  a 
stern  light ;  nor  the  slightest  evidence  that  Dante  cared  to  look  at  them. 
From  that  hill  of  San  Miniato,  whose  steps  he  knew  so  well,  the  eye 
commands,  at  the  farther  extremity  of  the  Val  d'Arno,  the  whole  purple 
range  of  the  mountains  of  Carrara,  peaked  and  mighty,  seen  always 
against  the  sunset  light  in  silent  outline,  the  chief  forms  that  rule  the 
scene  as  twilight  fades  away.  By  this  vision  Dante  seems  to  have 
been  wholly  unmoved,  and,  but  for  Lucan's  mention  of  Aruns  at  Luna, 
would  seemingly  not  have  spoken  of  the  Carrara  hills  in  the  whole  course 
of  his  poem  :  when  he  does  allude  to  them,  he  speaks  of  their  white 
marble,  and  their  command  of  stars  and  sea,  but  has  evidently  no  regard 
for  the  hills  themselves." 

1 68.  The  line  forcibly  expresses  the  labour  required  to  ^vring,  as  it 
were,  from  the  soil  its  scanty  produce. 

169,  170.  One  might  infer  at  first  that  the  poet  meant  that  Switzerland 
furnished  iron  as  well  as  mercenary  soldiers;  but  there  are  no  iron  mines 
in  the  country.     It  had  furnished  the  soldiers  from  the  1 5th  century.    Cf. 
Hamlet,  iv.  5  :  "  Where  are  my  Switzers  ?" 

176.  Redress  the  clime.  Make  amends  for  it.  Cf.  214,  where  redrest 
means  relieved,  or  supplied.  It  originally  meant  to  put  in  order  again, 
to  set  right.  Cf.  Milton,  P.  L.  ix.  219  : 

"  While  I, 

In  yonder  spring  of  roses  intermixt 
With  myrtle,  find  what  to  redress  till  noon." 

178.  He  sees,  etc.  Cf.  Caesar,  B.  G.  vi. :  "Cum  suas  quisque  opes  cum 
potentissimis  aequari  videat." 

1 86.  Breasts.     This  is  the  reading  of  all  the  early  editions,  and  John- 
son quotes  it  in  his  Diet,  as  an  illustration  of  the  verb.     The  reading 
"  Breathes,"  found  in  the  Globe  ed.  and  some  others,  doubtless  had  its 
origin  in  a  misprint. 

187.  The  finny  deep.     Cf.  Cit.  of  World,  ii.  :  "  The  best  manner  to  draw 
up  the  finny  prey."     On  the  transfer  of  the  adjective,  cf.  167,  and  D.  V. 
361  :  "  the  warbling  grove."    In  "patient  angle"  and  "  venturous  plough- 
share" we  have  a  similar  figure. 

190.  Savage.  Rarely  used  as  a  noun  except  of  human  beings.  Pope 
(Iliad,  xviii.  373)  applies  it  to  a  lion  : 

"  When  the  grim  savage,  to  his  rifled  den 
Too  late  returning,  snuffs  the  track  of  men." 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


117 


Goldsmith  uses  it  in  the  same  sense  in  prose,  as  in  Cit.  of  World,  i. :  "drive 
the  reluctant  savage  into  the  toils." 

191.  Sped.  Accomplished.  The  verb  speed,  in  this  sense,  means  sim- 
ply to  carry  through  successfully,  with  no  special  reference  to  quickness. 
Cf.  Judges  v.  30.  The  noun  speed  in  "  I  wish  you  good  speed  "  (of  which 
"  God  speed"  is  probably  a  corruption)  is  similarly  used  —  success.  Cf. 
Gen.  xxiv.  12  with  2  John  10,  1 1. 

197.  Cf.  D.  V.  155-160.  Nightly  =  for  the  night ;  not,  as  usual,  for  a  suc- 
cession of  nights.  Cf.  Milton,  //  Pens.  84  :  "  To  bless  the  doors  from 
nightly  harm ;"  Arc.  48,  etc.  So  often  in  Shakes. 

201.  The  I3th  ed.  has  "And  even  those  Hills." 

203.  Conforms.     Suits  itself. 

205.  And  as  a  child.     The  1st  and  I3th  eds.  have  "  as  a  babe." 

206.  Close  and  closer.     "  Perhaps  —  closer  and  closer  ;  but  the  former 
comparative  inflection  is  omitted  for  euphony's  and  the  metre's  sake,  just 
as  one  adverbial  inflection  is  omitted  in  '  safe  and  nicely,'  Lear,  v.  3  " 
(Hales).     Cf.  the  omission  of  the  superlative  inflection  in  "the  generous 
and  gravest  citizens"  (M.  for  M.  iv.  6),  "the  soft  and  sweetest  music" 
(Ben  Jonson),  "only  the  grave  and  wisest  of  the  land"  (Heywood),  etc. 
See  Shakes.  Gr.  397,  398. 

213.  The  ist  ed.  has  "Since  every  want."     Cf.  An.  Nat.  ii. :  "Every 
want  becomes  a  means  of  pleasure  in  the  redressing." 
216.  Supplies.     Satisfies. 
219,  220.  [Is  there  a  confusion  of  metaphors  here  ?] 

221.  Level.     Unvaried,  monotonous.     Cf.  359.     Mrs.  Browning,  in  one 
of  her  Sonnets,  says  :   "  We  miss  far  prospects  by  a  level  bliss." 

222.  The  ist  and  I3th  eds.  read,  "Nor  quench'd  by  want,  nor  fan'd  [sic] 
by  strong  desire." 

226.  [How  is  the  form  expire  to  be  justified  ?] 

232.  Fall  is  not  grammatically  correct,  but  may  be  explained  as  an  in- 
stance of  "  construction  according  to  sense." 

233.  A  good  example  of  the  mixture  of  metaphor  and  simile.     Wh.  p. 
198. 

234.  Cowering.    Simply,  brooding,  with  no  notion  of  fear.    Cf.  Dryden  : 
"  Our  dame  sits  cowering  o'er  a  kitchen  fire."     The  verb  was  also  used 
transitively,  as  in  Spenser,  F.  Q.  ii.  8,  9  : 

"  He  much  rejoyst,  and  courd  it  tenderly, 
As  chicken  newly  hatcht,  from  dreaded  destiny;" 

that  is,  shielded  or  protected  it,  as  a  bird  does  its  young. 

243.  Cf.  the  narrative  of  the  "philosophic  vagabond"  in  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield:  "I  had  some  knowledge  of  music,  with  a  tolerable  voice;  I 
now  turned  what  was  once  my  amusement  into  a  present  means  of  sub- 
sistence. I  passed,  among  the  harmless  peasants  of  Flanders,  and  among 
such  of  the  French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be  very  merry,  for  I  ever 
found  them  sprightly  in  proportion  to  their  wants.  Whenever  I  ap- 
proached a  peasant's  house  towards  nightfall,  I  played  one  of  my  merri- 
est tunes,  and  that  procured  me  not  only  a  lodging,  but  subsistence  for 
the  next  day ;  but  in  truth  I  must  own,  whenever  I  attempted  to  enter- 


u8  NOTES. 

tain  persons  of  a  higher  rank,  they  always  thought  my  performance  odi- 
ous, and  never  made  me  any  return  for  my  endeavours  to  please  them." 

244.  Timeless.     Explained  by  247,  248  below. 

253.  Gestic  lore.  Some  explain  this  as  "  legendary  lore."  See  Wb.  s.  v. 
But  it  seems  more  natural  to  refer  it  to  his  skill  in  dancing.  Cf.  Scott, 
Peveril  of  the  Peak,  ch.  xxx. :  "  He  seemed,  like  herself,  carried  away  by 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  gestic  art." 

255.  The  I3th  ed.  has  "  So  bright  a  Life." 

256.  Idly  busy.    The  rhetorical  figure  called  "  oxymoron."    Cf.  Horace's 
"Strenua  nos  exercet  inertia,"  and  Pope's  (Elegy  on  an  Unfortunate 

Lady] 

"Life's  idle  business  at  one  gasp  be  o'er." 

Rolls  their  world  away.    Cf.  Hamlet,  iii.  2  :  "  Thus  runs  the  world  away." 

264.  An  avarice  of  praise.    Cf.  Horace,  Ars  Poetica,  324  :  "  Praeter  lau- 
dem  nullius  avaris." 

265,  266.  See  p.  38,  foot-note. 

273.  Tawdry.  Said  to  be  derived  from  St.  Audrey  (St.  Ethelreda),  at 
the  fairs  held  on  whose  days  toys  and  finery,  especially  laces,  were  sold. 
Originally  the  word  had  no  depreciatory  sense.  Cf.  Shakes.  W.  T.  iv.  3  : 
"  Come,  you  promised  me  a  tawdry  lace  and  a  pair  of  sweet  gloves ;" 
and  Spenser,  Shep.  Kal.  Apr. : 

"  Binde  your  fillets  faste, 
And  gird  in  your  waste, 
For  more  finenesse,  with  a  tawdrie  lace." 

The  word  was  also  used  as  a  noun,  meaning  a  rustic  necklace.  Cf. 
Drayton,  Polyolbion,  ii.  : 

"  Of  which  the  Naiads  and  the  blue  Nereids  make 
Them  taudries  for  their  necks." 

276.  Frieze.    A  coarse  woollen  cloth.     Cf.  Milton,  Camus,  722  :  "Drink 
the  clear  stream,  and  nothing  wear  but  frieze." 

277.  Cheer.     Fare.     For  the  successive  meanings  of  this  word,  which 
originally  meant  the  face  (Fr.  chere},  see  Wb.  or  C.  p.  278. 

280.  Cf.  Pope,  Essay  on  Man,  iv.  255  : 

"  One  self-approving  hour  whole  years  outweighs 
Of  stupid  starers  and  of  loud  huzzas." 

281.  Cf.  what  Goldsmith  says  of  Holland  in  one  of  his  letters  :  "  Noth- 
ing can  equal  its  beauty ;  wherever  I  turn  my  eyes,  fine  houses,  elegant 
gardens,  statues,  grottoes,  vistas,  present  themselves  ;  but  when  you  en- 
ter their  towns  you  are  charmed  beyond  description.     No  misery  is  to 
be  seen  here  ;  every  one  is  usefully  employed." 

283.  Methinks.     In  this  word  me  is  the  dative  and  thinks  (the  A.  S. 
thincan,  to  seem,  not  thencan,  to  think)  is  impersonal.      In  Chaucer  we 
find  him  thoughte,  hem  (them)  thoughts,  etc.;  also,  it  thinketh  me,  etc. 

284.  Leans  against  the  land.     Cf.  Dryden,  Annus  Mirabilis,  St.  164 : 

"And  view  the  ocean  leaning  on  the  sky  ;" 
also  Statius,  Thcb.  iv.  62  :  "  Et  terris  maria  inclinata  repellit." 


THE  TRAVELLER.  H9 

286.  Rampire.  The  same  word  as  rampart.  It  was  also  used  as  a 
verb.  Cf.  Shakes.  T.  of  A.  v.  5  :  "Our  rampired  gates."  The  nth  ed. 
has  "Rampart's"  here,  and  two  lines  below  both  the  ist  and  i^fh  have 
"seems  to  go." 

289.  Spreads  its  long  arms,  etc.  In  the  ist  ed.  this  couplet  begins, 
"That  spreads  its  arms,"  and  follows  286,  which  ends  with  a  comma. 
287  and  288  follow  290,  and  291  reads,  "  While  ocean  pent  and  rising  o'er 
the  pile." 

291.  In  the  Animated  Nature,  Goldsmith  says  :  "  The  whole  kingdom  of 
Holland  seems  to  be  a  conquest  on  the  sea,  and  in  a  manner  rescued 
from  its  bosom.  The  surface  of  the  earth  in  this  country  is  below  the 
level  of  the  bed  of  the  sea ;  and  I  remember  upon  approaching  the  coast 
to  have  looked  down  upon  it  from  the  sea  as  into  a  valley." 

297.  Wave-subjected.  Lying  below  the  level  of  the  waves  ;  or,  perhaps, 
as  some  explain  it,  "  exposed  to  the  inroads  of  the  waves." 

303.  Are.     The  plural  is  grammatically  incorrect ;  but  see  on  232. 

305.  Cf.  V.ofW.  ch.  xix.  :  "  Now  the  possessor  of  accumulated  wealth, 
when  furnished  with  the  necessaries  and  pleasures  of  life,  has  no  other 
method  to  employ  the  superfluity  of  his  fortune  but  in  purchasing  power ; 
that  is,  differently  speaking,  in  making  dependants,  by  purchasing  the  lib- 
erty of  the  needy  or  the  venal,  of  men  who  are  willing  to  bear  the  mortifi- 
cation of  contiguous  tyranny  for  bread." 

309.  This  line  occurs  verbatim  in  the  Citizen  of  the  World,  i.  :  "  A  na- 
tion once  famous  for  setting  the  world  an  example  of  freedom  is  now  be- 
come a  land  of  tyrants  and  a  den  of  slaves." 

311.  Calmly  bent.     Tamely  stooping  to  the  yoke. 

312.  The  ist  and  I3th  eds.  read,  "Dull  as  their  lakes  that  sleep  be- 
neath the  storm." 

313.  In  an  Introduction  to  the  Hist,  of  the  Seven  Years'1  War,  Goldsmith 
says  :  "  How  unlike  the  brave  peasants,  their  ancestors,  who  spread  ter- 
ror in  India,  and  always  declared  themselves  the  allies  of  those  who  drew 
the  sword  in  defence  of  freedom  !" 

316.  "In  the  1 6th  century  they  had  fought  stoutly  against  the  same 
domineering  enemy  as  England  had  withstood  ;  in  the  1 7th  they  had  con- 
tested with  England  the  queenship  of  the  seas  "  (Hales). 

319.  Lawns.     Cf.  D.  V.  35.      "Arcadia,  perhaps  most  noted  in  the* 
Greek  and  Latin  writers  for  the  stupidity  of  its  inhabitants,  was  about  the 
time  of  the  revival  of  learning  adopted  as  the  ideal  of  rural  beauty " 
(Hales).    Arcadici  sensiis,  Arcadicae  awes,  etc.,  were  proverbial  synonyms 
for  "  pastoral  dulness,"  and  Arcadicus  juvenis  in  Juvenal  (vii.  160)  is 
equivalent  to  blockhead  ;  but  see  Virgil,  Ed.  vii.  4  ;  x.  30. 

320.  Hydaspes.     One  of  the  tributaries  of  the  Indus,  now  known  as  the 
Jelum,  or  Jhelum.     Its  Sanscrit  name  was  Vitasta,  of  which  Hydaspes  is 
a  corruption.      Horace  (Od.  i.  22,  8)  calls  it  "fabulosus,"  from  the  mar- 
vellous tales  connected  with-it. 

324.  That  is,  the  extremes  of  climate  are  known  there  only  in  imagina- 
tion. 

327.  Port.  Cf.  Gray's  Bard,  117  :  "  Her  lion  port,  her  awe-command- 
ing face." 


I20  NOTES. 

328.  In  the  ist  ed.  this  line  precedes  327. 

330.  £f.  Tennyson,  Locksley  Hall:  "  Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that 
err  from  honest  nature's  rule  !" 

332.  Imagined  right.     What  he  believes  to  be  his  right. 

333.  Boasts  these  rights  to  scan.     "  Boasts  that  he  scans  these  rights, 
that  he  takes  his  part  in  the  discussion  of  public  questions"  (Hales). 

341.  This  line  and  the  next  are  not  in  the  ist  ed.  In  342  the  I3th  ed. 
has  "All  kindred  Claims  that  soften  Life  unknown."  In  the  ist  ed.  343 
reads,  "  See,  though  by  circling  deeps  together  held."  In  350  both  eds. 
have  "  As  social  bonds  decay." 

345.  Ferments.  Political  agitations.  Imprisoned '  —  "restrained  with- 
in the  bounds  of  law." 

351.  Fictitious.     Factitious,  artificial. 

357.  Stems.    Families.    The  I3th  ed.  has  "patriot  claim  ;"  and  in  both 
the  ist  and  I3th  the  next  line  reads,  "  And  monarchs  toil,  and  poets  pant 
for  fame." 

358.  Wrote.    For  'written.    Cf.  Lear,  \.  2  :  "he  hath  wrote  this  ;"  Cymb. 
iii.  5  :  "  Lucius  hath  wrote  already  to  the  emperor ;"  A.  and  C.  iii.  5  : 
"letters  he  had  formerly  wrote  ;"  but  writ  is  the  usual  form  of  the  parti- 
ciple in  Shakes.    The  latter  is  the  curtailed  form  of 'written,  and  these  cur- 
tailed forms  (spoke,  broke,  forgot,  chid,  froze,  etc.)  are  common  in  the  Eliza- 
bethan writers.     See  Shakes.  Gr.  343. 

362.  The  great.     "  This  was  a  very  favorite  phrase  about  Goldsmith's 
time  "  (Hales).     After  this  line  the  ist  ed.  has  the  couplet, 

"  Perish  the  wish  ;  for  inly  satisfied, 
Above  their  pomps  I  hold  my  ragged  pride." 

Lines  363-380  are  not  in  ist  ed. 

363.  Ye  powers,  etc.     Cf.  Pope,  Elegy  on  an  Unfortunate  Lady : 

"  Why  bade  ye  else,  ye  powers,  her  soul  aspire 
Beyond  the  vulgar  flights  of  low  desire?" 

365.  "  The  literature  of  the  last  century  abounds  with  apostrophes  to 
Liberty.      That  theme  was  the  great  commonplace  of  the  time.      Gold- 
smith has  his  laugh  at  it  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  ch.  xix."  (Hales). 
369.  Blooms.     Cf.  115^ 
372.  Cf.  Thomson,  Summer: 

"  While  thus  laborious  crowds 
Ply  the  tough  oar,  philosophy  directs 
The  ruling  helm." 

The  I3th  ed.  reads,  "  That  those  who  think  most,  govern  those  that  Toil." 

374.  The  I3th  ed.  reads, 

"  proportion' d  Loads  on  each ; 
Much  on  the  Low,  the  Rest,  as  Rank  supplies, 
Should  in  columnar  Diminution  rise  ; 
While,  should  one  Order,"  etc. 

We  have  found  this  couplet  ("  Much  on,"  etc.)  nowhere  else,  and  it  is 
mentioned  by  none  of  the  editors. 

378.  Who  think.     That  is,  are  they  who  think. 

380.  Warms.     That  is,  "  my  soul." 

382.  Contracting  regal  power.     In  the  preface  to  the  Hist,  of  England, 


THE   TRAVELLER.  I2i 

Goldsmith  says  :  "  It  is  not  yet  decided  in  politics  whether  the  diminution 
of  kingly  power  in  England  tends  to  increase  the  happiness  or  freedom 
of  the  people.  For  my  own  part,  from  seeing  the  bad  effects  of  the  tyr- 
anny of  the  great  in  those  republican  states  that  pretend  to  be  free,  I  can- 
not help  wishing  that  our  monarchs  may  still  be  allowed  to  enjoy  the 
power  of  controlling  the  encroachments  of  the  great  at  home."  Cf.  V.  of 
W.  ch.  xix.  :  "  It  is  the  interest  of  the  great  to  diminish  kingly  power  as 
much  as  possible." 

386.  The  I3th  and  some  other  eds.  read,  "  Law  grinds  the  poor."  Cf. 
V.  of  W.  ch.  xix.  :  "  What  they  may  then  expect  may  be  seen  by  turning 
our  eyes  to  Holland,  Genoa,  or  Venice,  where  the  laws  govern  the  poor, 
and  the  rich  govern  the  law." 

391.  Cf.  the  conclusion  of  the  vicar's  harangue,  V.  of  W.  ch.  xix. 

391.  Petty  tyrants.  Cf.  Pope,  Ep.  to  Mrs.  Blount:  "Marriage  may  all 
these  petty  tyrants  chase." 

396.  Gave  'wealth,  etc.     Gave  to  wealth  the  power  of  swaying,  etc. 

397,  foil.     Cf.  D.  V.  49-56.  63-66,  275-282,  362-384. 

411.  Osivego.     The  river  of  that  name  in  New  York.     Cf.  Goldsmith's 
Threnodia  Align  stalls  : 

"Oswego's  dreary  shores  shall  be  my  grave."' 

412.  Niagara.     The  accent  was  originally  on  the  penult,  as  here.     See 
Lippincotf  s  Gazetteer. 

414,415.  Cf.  D.  V.,  349-355.  See  also  Animated  Nature:  "Where 
man  in  his  savage  state  owns  inferior  strength,  and  the  beasts  claim  di- 
vided dominion." 

416.  The  ist  and  I3th  eds.  have  "  And  the  brown  Indian  takes  a  dead- 
ly aim." 

420.  This  line  was  written  by  Dr.  Johnson.     See  above,  on  i. 

421.  The  ist  and  I3th  eds.  read  "  Casts  a  fond  look." 
426.  Cf.  Pope,  Essay  on  Man  : 

"For  forms  of  government  let  fools  contest; 
Whate'er  is  best  administer3  d  is  best." 

431.  Cf.  Milton,  P.  L.  i.  254  : 

'The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of  heaven." 

435.  Cf.  Blackmore,  Eliza :  "  Some  the  sharp  axe,  and  some  the  pain- 
ful wheel." 

436.  Luke's  iron  crown.    George  and  Luke  Dosa  were  two  brothers  who 
headed  a  revolt  against  the  Hungarian  nobles  in  1514;  and  George,  not 
Luke,  underwent  the  torture  of  the  red-hot  iron  crown  as  a  punishment 
for  allowing  himself  to  be  proclaimed  King  of  Hungary  by  the  rebels. 
The  brothers  belonged  to  one  of  the  native  races  of  Transylvania,  called 
Szeklers  (properly  Szekelys)  or  "Zecklers."     Boswell  (Life  of  Johnson, 
ch.  xix.)  gives  "Zeck"  as  the  name  of  the  brothers,  and  Corney  in  his 
edition  of  Goldsmith  "corrects"  the  text  here  into  "  Zeck's  iron  crown." 

Robert  Fran$ois  Damiens  was  put  to  death  with  frightful  tortures  in 
1757  for  an  attempt  to  assassinate  Louis  XV.  of  France. 


I22  NOTES. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

THIS  poem  was  first  published  in  1770.  "This  day  at  12,"  said  the 
Pitblic  Advertiser  of  May  26th  of  that  year,  "will  be  published,  price  two 
shillings,  the  Deserted  Village,  a  Poem.  By  Doctor  Goldsmith.  Printed 
for  W.  Griffin,  at  Garrick's  Head  in  Catherine  Street,  Strand."  A  2d 
edition  appeared  June  7th ;  a  3d,  June  I4th ;  a  4th.  carefully  revised, 
Tune  28  ;  and  a  5th,  August  i6th. 

The~poet  Gray,  then  passing  the  last  summer  of  his  life  at  Malvern, 
after  hearing  the  poem  read  to  him  by  his  friend  Nicholls,  exclaimed, 
"This  man  is  a  poet." 

Soon  after  the  publication  of  the  poem,  the  following  verses  were  ad- 
dressed to  the  author  by  Miss  Aiken,  afterwards  Mrs.  Barbauld : 

"  In  vain  fair  Auburn  weeps  her  desert  plains; 
She  moves  our  envy  who  so  well  complains : 
In  vain  hath  proud  oppression  laid  her  low ; 
She  wears  a  garland  on  her  faded  brow. 
Now,  Auburn,  now,  absolve  impartial  Fate, 
Which,  if  it  makes  thee  wretched,  makes  thee  great. 
So  unobserv'd,  some  humble  plant  may  bloom, 
Till  crush'  d,  it  fills  the  air  with  sweet  perfume : 
So  had  thy  swains  in  ease  and  plenty  slept, 
The  Poet  had  not  sung,  nor  Britain  wept. 
Nor  let  Britannia  mourn  her  drooping  bay, 
UnhonourM  Genius,  and  her  swift  decay: 
O  Patron  of -the  Poor!    it  cannot  be, 
While  one — one  poet  yet  remains  like  thee. 
Nor  can  the  Muse  desert  our  favoured  isle, 
Till  thou  desert  the  Muse,  and  scorn  her  smile." 

.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  vol.  iv.,  thus  writes  : 
"  It  would  be  difficult  to  point  out  one  among  the  English  poets  less 
likely  to  be  excelled  in  his  own  style  than  the  author  of  the  Deserted  Vil- 
lage. Possessing  much  of  Pope's  versification  without  the  monotonous 
structure  of  his  lines  ;  rising  sometimes  to  the  swell  and  fulness  of  Dry- 
den,  without  his  inflations  ;  delicate  and  masterly  in  his  descriptions  ; 
graceful  in  one  of  the  greatest  graces  of  poetry,  its  transitions  ;  alike  suc- 
cessful in  his  sportive  or  grave,  his  playful  or  melancholy  mood  ;  he  may 
long  bid  defiance  to  the  numerous  competitors  whom  the  friendship  or 
flattery  of  the  present  age  is  so  hastily  arraying  against  him." 
And,  again : 

"  The  wreath  of  Goldsmith  is  unsullied  :  he  wrote  to  exalt  virtue  and 
expose  vice  ;  and  he  accomplished  his  task  in  a  manner  which  raises  him 
to  the  highest  rank  among  British  authors.  We  close  this  volume  with 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE. 


123 


a  sigh  that  such  an  author  should  have  written  so  little  from  the  stores 
of  his  own  genius,  and  that  he  should  have  been  so  prematurely  removed 
from  the  sphere  of  literature  which  he  so  highly  adorned." 
Goethe,  in  his  Memoirs,  refers  to  the  poem  as  follows  : 
"  A  poetical  production,  which  our  little  circle  hailed  with  transport, 
now  occupied  our  attention  ;  this  was  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village.  This 
poem  seemed  perfectly  adapted  to  the  sentiments  which  then  actuated 
us.  The  pictures  which  it  represented  were  those  which  we  loved  to 
contemplate,  and  sought  with  avidity,  in  order  to  enjoy  them  with  all  the 
zest  of  youth.  Village  fetes,  wakes,  and  fairs,  the  grave  meetings  of  the 
elders  under  the  village  trees,  to  which  they  have  retreated  in  order  to 
leave  the  young  to  the  pleasures  of  the  dance  ;  the  part  taken  by  persons 
of  a  more  elevated  rank  in  these  village  entertainments  ;  the  decency 
maintained  in  the  midst  of  the  general  hilarity  by  a  worthy  clergyman, 
skilled  to  moderate  mirth  when  approaching  to  boisterousness,  and  to 
prevent  all  that  might  produce  discord  ; — such  were  the  representations 
the  poet  laid  before  us,  not  as  the  object  of  present  attention  and  enjoy- 
ment, but  as  past  pleasures,  the  loss  of  which  excited  regret.  We  found 
ourselves  once  more  in  our  beloved  Wakefield,  amidst  its  well-known 
circle.  But  those  interesting  characters  had  now  lost  all  life  and  move- 
ment ;  they  appeared  only  like  shadows  called  up  by  the  plaintive  tones 
of  the  elegiac  muse.  The  idea  of  this  poem  seems  singularly  happy  to 
those  who  can  enter  into  the  author's  intention,  and  who,  like  him,  find  a 
melancholy  satisfaction  in  recalling  innocent  pleasures  long  since  fled.  I 
shared  all  Cotter's  enthusiasm  for  this  charming  production.  We  both 
undertook  to  translate  it ;  but  he  succeeded  better  than  I  did,  because  I 
had  too  scrupulously  endeavoured  to  transfer  the  tender  and  affecting 
character  of  the  original  into  our  language." 

Irving  says  :  "  We  shall  not  dwell  upon  the  peculiar  merits  of  this 
poem  ;  we  cannot  help  noticing,  however,  how  truly  it  is  a  mirror  of  the 
author's  heart,  and  of  all  the  fond  pictures  of  early  friends  and  early  life 
forever  present  there.  It  seems  to  us  as  if  the  very  last  accounts  received 
from  home,  of  his  '  shattered  family,'  and  the  desolation  that  seemed  to 
have  settled  upon  the  haunts  of  his  childhood,  had  cut  to  the  roots  one 
feebly  cherished  hope,  and  produced  the  following  exquisitely  tender  and 
mournful  lines  : 

'  In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose ; 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn' d  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw ; 
And  as  an  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last? 

"  How  touchingly  expressive  are  the  succeeding  lines,  wrung  from  a 


124  NOTES. 

heart  which  all  the  trials  and  temptations  and  bufferings  of  the  world 
could  not  render  worldly  ;  which,  amid  a  thousand  follies  and  errors  of 
the  head,  still  retained  its  childlike  innocence  ;  and  which,  doomed  to 
struggle  on  to  the  last  amidst  the  din  and  turmoil  of  the  metropolis,  had 
ever  been  cheating  itself  with  a  dream  of  rural  quiet  and  seclusion : 

*O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine  ! 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep ; 
No  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  ; 
But  on  he  moves,  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend; 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past.' ' 

Mr.  Hales  remarks  :  "  Goldsmith's  was  the  one  poetical  voice  of  that 
time.  No  other  poems  besides  his,  published  between  Gray's  Odes  and 
Cowper's  Table  Talk,  can  be  said  to  have  lived.  It  is  no  wonder  The 
Deserted  Village  was  so  widely  popular.  The  heart  of  the  people  was 
not  dead,  though  somewhat  chill  and  cold.  It  warmed  towards  a  pres- 
ence so  genial,  so  graceful,  so  tender. 

"  Here,  as  in  his  other  poem,  Goldsmith  entertained  not  only  an  artistic, 
but  also  a  didactic  purpose.  He  wished  to  set  forth  the  evils  of  the  Lux- 
ury that  was  prevailing  more  and  more  widely  in  his  day.  This  is  a 
thrice  old  theme  ;  but  indeed  what  theme  is  not  so  ?  No  doubt  the  vast 
growth  of  our  commerce  and  increase  of  wealth  in  the  middle  and  latter 
part  of  the  last  century  especially  suggested  it  in  Goldsmith's  time. 
Possibly  enough. in  handling  it  Goldsmith  made  some  blunders  ;  the  work 
could  scarcely  be  his,  if  it  were  free  from  blunders.  .  .  .  He  was  wrong  in 
nis  belief  that  England  was  at  the  time  rapidly  depopulating.  .  .  .  He  was 
obviously  wrong  in  ascribing  this  supposed  depopulation  to  the  great 
commercial  prosperity  of  the  time.  Whatever  sentimental,  whatever  real 
objections  may  be  urged  against  Trade,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  it  mul- 
tiplies and  widens  fields  of  labour,  and  so  creates  populations.  .  .  .  Gold- 
smith's fallacy  lies  in  identifying  Trade  and  Luxury.  .  .  .  Again,  the  pict- 
ure drawn  of  the  emigrants  in  their  new  land  is  certainly  much  exagger- 
ated. Such  experience  as  befalls  the  hero  of  Martin  Ckuzzlewit  is  very 
much  what  Goldsmith  conceives  to  await  all  emigrants.  .  .  . 

"  But  he  is  not  always  in  the  wrong.  His  attacks  on  Luxury,  when 
he  really  means  Luxury  and  not  something  else  in  some  way  associated 
with  that  cardinal  pest,  are  well  deserved  and  often  vigorously  made. 
And  when  he  deplores  the  accumulation  of  land  under  one  ownership — 
how  '  one  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain' — and  how  consequently 
the  old  race  of  small  proprietors  is  exterminated — how  'a  bold  peasantry, 
their  country's  pride,'  is  perishing,  he  certainly  cannot  be  laughed  down 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE.  125 

as  a  maintainer  of  mere  idle  grievances.  One  may  agree  with  him  in  his 
view  in  this  matter,  or  one  may  disagree  ;  but  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
here  he  has  a  right  to  his  view — that  this  is  a  question  open  to  serious 
doubt  and  difficulty.  I  suppose  there  are  few  persons  who  will  not  al- 
low there  is  something  to  regret  in  the  almost  total  disappearance  of  the 
class  of  small  freeholders,  however  much  that  something  may  seem  to  be 
compensated  for  by  what  has  come  in  their  place.  ...  As  the  question  is 
generally  discussed  by  political  economists,  it  lies  between  small  farms 
and  large  farms  ;  ...  as  it  presented  itself  to  Goldsmith,  it  lay  between 
small  farms  and  large  parks — between  a  system  of  small  ground-plots  as- 
siduously cultivated,  and  wide  estates  reserved  for  seclusion  and  pleasure. 
.  .  .  '  Haifa  tillage,'  as  it  seemed,  'stinted  the  smiling  plain ;'  and  in  his 
eyes  there  was  no  smile  possible  for  the  plain  like  that  of  the  waving  corn, 
which  is,  as  it  were,  the  gold-haired  child  of  it.  Then,  like  the  gentle 
recluse  Gray,  and  like  the  bright  day-labourer  Burns,  he  felt  much  sym- 
pathy with  the  merriments  and  sadnesses  and  interests  of  the  common 
country-folk.  Their  life  was  precious  to  him,  and  he  could  not  bear  to 
think  that  the  area  of  it  was  being  narrowed,  that  for  them  no  more  the 
blazing  hearth  should  burn  where  it  had  been  wont,  not  because  they 
were  dead,  but  because  they  were  ejected  wanderers. 

"  It  is  from  this  sincere  sympathy,  apart  from  all  theories  and  theorizings, 
that  the  force  and  beauty  of  this  poem  spring.  When  Goldsmith  thinks 
of  the  decay  or  destruction  of  those  scenes  he  prized  so  highly,  a  genuine 
sorrow  penetrates  him,  and  he  gives  it  tongue  as  in  this  poem ;  he  be- 
comes the  loving  elegist  of  the  old  yeomanry." 

Mr.  Forster,  in  his  Life  and  Times  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  comparing 
The  Traveller  and  The  Deserted  Village,  says  :  "  All  the  characteristics 
of  the  first  poem  seem  to  me  developed  in  the  second ;  with  as  chaste  a 
simplicity,  with  as  choice  a  selectness  of  natural  expression,  in  verse  of  as 
musical  cadence  ;  but  with  yet  greater  earnestness  of  purpose,  and  a  far 
more  human  interest.  Nor  is  that  purpose  to  be  lightly  dismissed,  be- 
cause it  more  concerns  the  heart  than  the  understanding,  and  is  senti- 
mental rather  than  philosophical.  The  accumulation  of  wealth  has  not 
brought  about  man's  diminution,  nor  is  trade's  proud  empire  threatened 
with  decay ;  but  too  eager  are  the  triumphs  of  both,  to  be  always  con- 
scious of  evils  attendant  on  even  the  benefits  they  bring, — and  of  those 
it  was  the  poet's  purpose  to  remind  us.  The  lesson  can  never  be  thrown 
away.  No  material  prosperity  can  be  so  great,  but  that  underneath  it, 
and  indeed  because  of  it,  will  not  still  be  found  much  suffering  and  sad- 
ness ;  much  to  remember  that  is  commonly  forgotten,  much  to  attend  to 
that  is  almost  always  neglected.  Trade  would  not  thrive  the  less,  though 
shortened  somewhat  of  its  unfeeling  train ;  nor  wealth  enjoy  fewer  bless- 
ings, if  its  unwieldy  pomp  less  often  spurned  the  cottage  from  the  green. 
'  It  is  a  melancholy  thing  to  stand  alone  in  one's  country,'  said  the  Lord 
Leicester  who  built  Holkham,  when  complimented  on  the  completion  of 
that  princely  dwelling.  '  I  look  round — not  a  house  is  to  be  seen  but 
mine.  I  am  the  giant  of  Giant-castle,  and  have  eat  up  all  my  neighbours.'* 

*  When  asked  who  was  his  nearest  neighbour,  he  replied,  "The  King  of  Denmark." 


I26  NOTES. 

There  is  no  man  who  has  risen  upward  in  the  world,  even  by  ways  the 
most  honourable  to  himself  and  kindly  to  others,  who  may  not  be  said  to 
have  a  deserted  village,  sacred  to  the  tenderest  and  fondest  recollections, 
which  it  is  well  that  his  fancy  and  his  feeling  should  at  times  revisit. 

"  Goldsmith  looked  into  his  heart  and  wrote.  From  that  great  city  in 
which  his  hard-spent  life  had  been  diversified  with  so  much  care  and  toil, 
he  travelled  back  to  the  memory  of  lives  more  simply  passed,  of  more 
cheerful  labour,  of  less  anxious  care,  of  homely  affections  and  humble  joys 
for  which  the  world  and  all  its  successes  offer  nothing  in  exchange.  .  .  . 

"  Sweet  Auburn  is  no  more.  But  though  he  finds  the  scene  deserted, 
for  us  he  peoples  it  anew,  builds  up  again  its  ruined  haunts,  and  revives 
its  pure  enjoyments ;  from  the  glare  of  crowded  cities,  their  exciting 
struggles  and  palling  pleasures,  carries  us  back  to  the  season  of  natural 
pastimes  and  unsophisticated  desires  ;  adjures  us  all  to  remember,  in  our 
several  smaller  worlds,  the  vast  world  of  humanity  that  breathes  beyond; 
shows  us  that  there  is  nothing  too  humble  for  the  loftiest  and  most  affect- 
ing associations ;  and  that  where  human  joys  and  interests  have  been, 
their  memory  is  sacred  forever  !  .  .  . 

"  Beautifully  is  it  said  by  Mr.  Campbell,  that '  fiction  in  poetry  is  not  the 
reverse  of  truth,  but  her  soft  and  enchanted  resemblance ;  and  this  ideal 
beauty  of  nature  has  seldom  been  united  with  so  much  sober  fidelity  as 
in  the  groups  and  scenery  of  The  Deserted  Village.'1  It  is  to  be  added 
that  everything  in  it  is  English,  the  feeling,  incidents,  descriptions,  and 
allusions ;  and  that  this  consideration  may  save'us  needless  trouble  in 
seeking  to  identify  sweet  Auburn  (a  name  he  obtained  from  Langton)  with 
Lissoy.  Scenes  of  the  poet's  youth  had  doubtless  risen  in  his  memory 
as  he  wrote,  mingling  with,  and  taking  altered  hue  from,  later  experiences ; 
thoughts  of  those  early  days  could  scarcely  have  been  absent  from  the 
wish  for  a  quiet  close  to  the  struggles  and  toil  of  his  mature  life,  and  very 
possibly,  nay,  almost  certainly,  when  the  dream  of  such  a  retirement 
haunted  him,  Lissoy  formed  part  of  the  vision  ;  it  is  even  possible  he 
may  have  caught  the  first  hint  of  his  design  from  a  local  Westmeath 
poet  and  schoolmaster,*  who,  in  his  youth,  had  given  rhymed  utterance  to 
the  old  tenant  grievances  of  the  Irish  rural  population  ;  nor  could  com- 
plaints that  were  also  loudest  in  those  boyish-days  at  Lissoy,  of  certain 
reckless  and  unsparing  evictions  by  which  one  General  Naper  (Napper, 
or  Napier)  had  persisted  in  improving  his  estate,  have  passed  altogether 
from  Goldsmith's  memory,  t  But  there  was  nothing  local  in  his  present 

*  Lawrence  Whyte,  who  published  (1741)  a  poem,  in  whose  list  of  subscribers  appears 
Allan  Ramsay's  name,  which  describes  with  some  pathos  the  sufferings  of  dispossessed 
Irish  tenantry : 

"  Their  native  soil  were  fore'  d  to  quit, 
So  Irish  landlords  thought  it  fit.  ... 
How  many  villages  they  razed, 
How  many  parishes  laid  waste !" 

t  The  earliest  and  most  intelligent  attempt  to  identify  Lissoy  and  Auburn  was  made  in 
1807  by  Doctor  Strean,  Henry  Goldsmith's  successor  in  the  curacy  of  Kilkenny  West, 
but,  at  the  time  he  wrote  this  letter,  perpetual  curate  of  Athlone.  I  quote  it  as  the  first 
and  best  outline  of  all  that  has  since  been  very  elaborately  and  very  needlessly  said  on  the 
same  subject :  "  The  poem  of  The  Deserted  Village  took  its  origin  from  the  circumstance 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


127 


aim  ;  or  if  there  was,  it  was  the  rustic  life  and  rural  scenery  of  England. 
It  is  quite  natural  that  Irish  enthusiasts  should  have  found  out  the  fence, 
the  furze,  the  thorn,  the  decent  church,  the  never-failing  brook,  the  busy 
mill,  even  the  Twelve  Good  Rules,  and  Royal  Game  of  Goose  ;*  it  was 
to  be  expected  that  pilgrims  should  have  borne  away  every  vestige  of  the 
first  hawthorn  they  could  lay  their  hands  on  ;  it  was  very  graceful  and 
pretty  amusement  for  Mr.  Hogan,  when  he  settled  in  the  neighbourhood, 
to  rebuild  the  village  inn  and  fix  the  '  broken  teacups '  in  the  wall  for  se- 
curity against  the  enthusiasm  of  predatory  pilgrims,  to  fence  round  with 
masonry  what  still  remained  of  the  hawthorn,  to  prop  up  the  tottering 
walls  of  what  was  once  the  parish  school,  and  to  christen  his  furbished- 
up  village  and  adjoining  mansion  by  the  name  of  Auburn.  All  this,  as 

of  General  Robert  Napper  (the  grandfather  of  the  gentleman  who  now  lives  in  the  house, 
within  half  a  mile  of  Lissoy,  and  built  by  the  general)  having  purchased  an  extensive 
tract  of  the  country  surrounding  Lissoy,  or  Auburn',  in  consequence  of  which  many 
families,  here  called  cottiers,  were  removed,  to  make  room  for  the  intended  improvements 
of  what  was  now  to  become  the  wide  domain  of  a  rich  man,  warm  with  the  idea  of  chang- 
ing the  face  of  his  new  acquisition  ;  and  were  forced,  '  with  fainting  steps,'  to  go  in  search 
of  'torrid  tracts'  and  '  distant  climes.'  This  fact  alone  might  be  sufficient  to  establish 
the  seat  of  the  poem ;  but  there  cannot  remain  a  doubt  in  any  unprejudiced  mind  when 
the  following  are  added:  viz.,  that  the  character  of  the  village  preacher,  the  above-named 
Henry,  is  copied  from  nature.  He  is  described  exactly  as  he  lived,  and  his  'modest 
mansion'  as  it  existed.  Burn,  the  name  of  the  village  master,  and  the  site  of  his  school- 
house  ;  and  Catherine  Giraghty,  a  lonely  widow, 

'The  wretched  matron,  forc'd  in  age  for  bread 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread' 

(and  to  this  day  the  brook  and  ditches  near  the  spot  where  her  cabin  stood  abound  with 
cresses),  still  remain  in  the  memory  of  the  inhabitants,  and  Catherine's  children  live  in 
the  neighbourhood.  The  pool,  the  busy  mill,  the  house  where  '  nut-brown  draughts  in- 
spired,' are  still  visited  as  the  poetic  scene  ;  and  the  '  hawthorn-bush,'  growing  in  an  open 
space  in  front  of  the  house,  which  I  knew  to  have  three  trunks,  is  now  reduced  to  one ; 
the  other  two  having  been  cut,  from  time  to  time,  by  persons  carrying  pieces  of  it  away  to 
be  made  into  toys,  etc.,  in  honour  of  the  bard,  and  of  the  celebrity  of  his  poem.  All  these 
contribute  to  the  same  proof;  and  the  'decent  church,'  which  I  attended  for  upwards  of 
eighteen  years,  and  which  'tops  the  neighbouring  hill,'  is  exactly  described  as  seen  from 
Lissoy,  the  residence  of  the  preacher." 

"A  lady  from  the  neighbourhood  of  Portglenone,  in  the  county  of  Antrim,  was  one 
of  those  who  visited  the  Deserted  Village  in  the  summer  of  1817;  and  was  fortunate 
enough  to  find,  in  a  cottage  adjoining  the  ale-house,  an  old  smoked  print,  which  she  was 
credibly  informed  was  the  identical  Twelve  Good  Rules  which  had  ornamented  that  rural 
tavern,  with  the  Royal  Game  of  Goose,  etc.,  etc.,  when  Goldsmith  drew  his  fascinating  de- 
scription of  it." — Gent.  Mag.  vol.  Ixxxviii. 

The  "identical"  old  smoked  print  was  doubtless  Mr.  Hogan' s.  "  When  I  settled  on 
the  spot,"  said  that  gentleman,  giving  account  of  what  he  had  done  to  a  public  meeting 
held  in  Ballymahon  in  1819,  to  set  on  foot  a  subscription  for  a  monument  to  Goldsmith's 
memory,  "  I  attempted  to  replace  some  of  the  almost  forgotten  identities  that  delighted 
me  forty  years  since.  I  rebuilt  his  Three  Jolly  Pigeons,  restored  his  Twelve  Good  Rules 
and  Royal  Game  of  Goose,  enclosed  his  Hawthorn  Tree,  now  almost  cut  away  by  the  de- 
votion of  the  literary  pilgrims  who  resort  to  it ;  I  also  planted  his  favourite  hill  before 
Lissoy  Gate,"  etc.,  etc. — Gent.  Mag.  vol.  xc.  The  proposed  monument  failed,  notwith- 
standing the  honourable  enthusiasm  of  Mr.  Hogan,  the  Rev.  John  Graham,  its  originator, 
and  others.  I  may  add  that  soon  after  Mr.  Hogan  began  his  restorations,  an  intelligent 
visitor  described  them  ;  and  nothing,  he  said,  so  shook  his  faith  in  the  reality  of  Auburn 
as  the  got-up  print,  the  fixed  teacups,  and  so  forth.  But  what  had  once  been  Charles 
and  Henry  Goldsmith's  parsonage  at  Lissoy,  the  lower  chamber  of  which  he  found  inhab- 
ited by  pigs  and  sheep,  and  the  drawing-room  by  oats,  was  yet  so  placed  in  relation  to  ob- 


I28  NOTES. 

Walter  Scott  has  said,  '  is  a  pleasing  tribute  to  the  poet  in  the  land  of  his 
fathers  ;'  *  but  it  certainly  is  no  more. 

"  Such  tribute  as  the  poem  itself  was,  its  author  offered  to  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  dedicating  it  to  him.  '  Setting  interest  aside,'  he  wrote,  '  to 
which  I  never  paid  much  attention,  I  must  be  indulged  at  present  in  fol- 
lowing my  affections.  The  only  dedication  I  ever  made  was  to  my  brother, 
because  I  loved  him  better  than  most  other  men.  He  is  since  dead.  Per- 
mit me  to  inscribe  this  Poem  to  you.'  How  gratefully  this  was  received, 
and  how  strongly  it  cemented  an  already  fast  friendship,  needs  not  be  said. 
The  great  painter  could  not  rest  till  he  had  made  public  acknowledgment 
and  return.  He  painted  his  picture  of  Resignation,  had  it  engraved  by 
Thomas  Watson,  and  inscribed  upon  it  these  words  :  '  This  attempt  to 
express  a  character  in  The  Deserted  Village  is  dedicated  to  Doctor  Gold- 
smith, by  his  sincere  friend  and  admirer,  Joshua  Reynolds.' ' 

I.  Sweet  Auburn.  Lissoy  or  Lishoy,  which  claims  the  honour  of  being 
the  original  Auburn  (see  extract  from  Mr.  Forster  above)  is  eight  miles 
north  of  Athlone,  and  almost  in  the  geographical  centre  of  Ireland. 
Howitt  (Homes  and  Haunts  of  British  Poets,  vol.  i.  p.  328,  Harper's  ed.) 
says  that  it  now  "  consists  of  a  few  common  cottages  by  the  roadside,  on 
a  flat  and  by  no  means  particularly  interesting  scene."  The  ruins  of  the 
house  where  Goldsmith's  father  lived  are  still  to  be  seen,  with  "  the  orch- 
ard and  wild  remains  of  a  garden,  enclosed  with  a  high  old  stone  wall." 

4.  Parting.    Departing,  as  often  in  poetry  and  in  Old  English.    Cf.  171 : 
"parting  life;"  also  Gray's  Elegy,  I  :  "parting  day,"  and  89:  "parting 
soul ;"  Shakes.  Cor.  v.  6  :  "  When  I  parted  hence,"  etc. ;   Milton,  Hymn 
on  Nativ.  186  :  "The  parting  Genius, "etc.    On  the  other  hand,  depart  Dili's, 
used  in  the  sense  of  part.    In  the  Marriage  Service  "  till  death  us  do  part" 
is  a  corruption  of  "  till  death  us  depart."  Wiclif's  Bible,  in  Matt.  xix.  6,  has 
"  therfor  a  man  departe  not  that  thing  that  God  hath  ioyned  ;"  and  Chau- 
cer, in  Knight 's  Tale,  1 136,  "  Til  that  the  deth  departen  shal  us  tweine." 

5.  Dear  lovely  bcnvers,  etc      The  ten  lines  beginning  with  this  were 
Goldsmith's  second  morning's  work  on  the  poem,  according  to  his  friend 
Cooke,  to  whom  he  read  the  lines  aloud.     "  Come,"  he  added,  "  let  me 
tell  you,  this  is  no  bad  morning's  work ;  and  now,  my  dear  boy,  if  you 
are  not  better  engaged,  I  should  like  to  enjoy  a  shoemaker's  holiday  with 
you"  (Forster). 

6.  Cf.  Pope,  Essay  on  Man,  ii.  : 

jects  described  in  the  poem,  as  somewhat  to  restore  his  shaken  belief.  He  adds,  that,  in 
the  cabin  of  the  quondam  schoolmaster,  an  oak  chair  with  a  back  and  seat  of  cane,  purport- 
ing to  be  "  the  chair  of  the  poet,"  was  shown  him,  apparently  kept  "  rather  for  the  sake 
of  drawing  contributions  from  the  curious  than  from  any  reverence  for  the  bard.  There 
is,"  he  humourously  adds,  "  no  fear  of  its  being  worn  out  by  the  devout  earnestness  of  sit- 
ters, as  the  cocks  and  hens  have  usurped  undisputed  possession  of  it,  and  protest  most 
clamourously  against  all  attempts  to  get  it  cleansed,  or  to  seat  oneself." 

*  Colman  the  younger  has  recorded  (Random  Recollections,  vol.  i.)  a  more  extraordi- 
nary tribute  in  the  land  of  his  adoption :  "  One  day  I  met  the  poet  Harding  at  Oxford,  a 
half-crazy  creature,  as  poets  generally  are,  with  a  huge  broken  brick  and  some  bits  of 
thatch  upon  the  crown  of  his  hat.  On  my  asking  him  for  a  solution  of  this  Prosopopeia, 
'Sir,'  said  he,  'to-day  is  the  anniversary  of  the  celebrated  Dr.  Goldsmith's  death,  and  I 
am  now  in  the  character  of  his  Deserted  Village.'1 ' 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  I29 

"Behold  the  child,  by  nature's  kindly  law, 
Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw." 

12.  Decent.  In  its  original  sense  of  comely  (Latin  decens).  Cf.  Milton, 
//  Pens.  36  :  "  thy  decent  shoulders,"  etc. 

1 6.  When  toil,  etc.     "  When  a  remission  of  toil  allowed  play  to  have 
its  turn." 

17.  Train.     As  Hales  remarks,  this  is  a  frequent  word  in  Goldsmith's 
poems. 

19.  Circled.     Like  "went  round"  just  below. 

22.  Sleights.  Dexterous  feats.  The  word  is  rarely  used  now,  except 
in  the  phrase  "sleight  of  hand."  Cf.  Macbeth,  iii.  5  :  "distilled  by  magic 
sleights  ;"  Spenser,  F.  Q.  i.  7, 30  :  "  In  yvory  sheath,  ycarv'd  with  curious 
slights  ;"  Id.  v.  9,  13  :  "  slights  and  jugling  feates,"  etc. 

25.  Simply.     In  a  simple  manner,  artlessly. 

27.  Mistrustless.     Unconscious,  having  no  suspicion. 

28.  Titter 'd.     An  onomatopoetic  word.     H.  p.  218.     Cf.  giggle,  which 
means  a  slightly  different  kind  of  laughter. 

29.  Sidelong.     "  Probably  the  long  is  a  corruption  of  the  adverbial  ter- 
mination ling,  which  yet  survives  in  grovelling  and  darkling"  (Hales). 
Shakes.  (Temp.  ii.  i)  has  flatlong,  with  which  cf.  Spenser,  F.  Q.  v.  5,  18: 
"  Tho  with  her  sword  on  him  she  flatling  strooke." 

35.  Lawn.     Here  used  almost  in  the  same  sense  as  "plain,"  line  i. 

37.  Amidst.  Some  modern  editions  have  amid,  but  Goldsmith  always 
uses  amidst. 

40.  Stints  thy  smiling  plain.  "  Deprives  thy  plain  of  the  beauty  and 
luxuriance  that  once  characterized  it "  (Hales). 

42.  Works  its  weedy  way.  A  good  example  of  "  alliteration's  artful  aid." 
H.  p.  298. 

44.  The  hollow  -  sounding  bittern.  Cf.  An.  Nat.  vol.  vi. :  "Those  who 
have  walked  on  an  evening  by  the  sedgy  sides  of  unfrequented  rivers 
must  remember  a  variety  of  notes  from  different  water-fowl ;  the  loud 
scream  of  the  wild  goose,  the  croaking  of  the  mallard,  the  whining  of  the 
lapwing,  and  the  tremulous  neighing  of  the  jack-snipe.  But  of  all  these 
sounds  there  is  none  so  dismally  hollow  as  the  booming  of  the  bittern. . . . 
I  remember  in  the  place  where  I  was  a  boy,  with  what  terror  this  bird's 
note  affected  the  whole  village." 

51.  Ill  fares  the  land,  etc.     Cf.  295.     The  repetition  of  ill  is  probably, 
as  Hales  suggests,  one  of  the  "negligences  of  style  "that  are  common  in 
Goldsmith's  writings. 

52.  Where  wealth  accumulates.     Cf.  V.  of  W.:  "Wealth  in  all  com- 
mercial states  is  found  to  accumulate ;  the  very  laws  may  contribute  to 
the  accumulation  of  wealth,  as  when  the  natural  ties  that  bind  the  rich 
and  poor  together  are  broken,"  etc. 

54.  Cf.  Gower,  Conf.  Am. : 

"A  kynge  may  make  a  lorde  a  knave ; 
And  of  a  knave  a  lorde  also." 

Also  Burns,  Cotter's  Sat.  Night:  "  Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath 
of  kings  ;"  and  again,  in  the  familiar  song : 

I 


1 30  NOTES. 

"A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa'  that." 

59.  Her.     "  Labour"  is  personified  as  feminine.     H.  p.  146. 

63.  See  on  17.     Cf.  81  below. 

65.  See  on  35. 

67.  The  first  ed.  has  "to  luxury  allied." 

70.  Cf.  Carew,  Disdain  Returned:  "  Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires." 

74.  Manners.     See  on  Trav.  127. 

77.  For  this  and  the  three  following  lines  the  first  ed.  has  the  couplet, 

*'  Here  as  with  doubtful,  pensive  steps  I  range, 
Trace  every  scene,  and  wonder  at  the  change." 

83.  See  extract  from  Irving,  p.  123. 

86.  Lay  me  down.     For  the  pronoun  see  on  Trav.  32. 

87.  Htisband  oiit.     Economize.     Cf.  the  use  of  the  noun  in  Macbeth, 
ii.  i  :  "  There's  husbandry  in  heaven ;  their  candles  are  all  out."     The 
addition  of  "out"  is  peculiar.     Wordsworth  in  one  passage  has  "to 
husband  up  The  respite  of  the  season." 

93.  An  hare.     See  on  Trav.  34.     Whom  for  which  is  an  inaccuracy  not 
uncommon  in  British  writers  even  in  our  day.     On  hounds  and  horns  cf. 
Shakes.  T.  A.  ii.  3  :  "  Whiles  hounds  and  horns  and  sweet  melodious  birds." 

94.  She  flew.     Thus  in  the  early  editions ;  not  "  he  flew,"  as  in  some 
modern  reprints. 

95.  96.  Forster  remarks :  "  This  thought  was  continually  at  his  heart. 
In  his  hardly  less  beautiful  prose  he  has  said  the  same  thing  more  than 
once,  for,  as  I  have  elsewhere  remarked,  no  one  ever  borrowed  from 
himself  oftener  or  more  unscrupulously  than  Goldsmith  did.     'A  city 
like  this,'  he  writes  in  letter  ciii.  of  the  Citizen  of  the  World,  '  is  the  soil 
for  great  virtues  and  great  vices.  .  .  .  There  are  no  pleasures,  sensual  or 
sentimental,  which  this  city  does  not  produce  ;  yet,  I  know  not  how,  I 
could  not  be  content  to  reside  here  for  life.     There  is  something  so  se- 
ducing in  that  spot  in  which  we  first  had  existence,  that  nothing  but  it 
can  please.     Whatever  vicissitudes  we  experience  in  life,  however  we 
toil,  or  wheresoever  we  wander,  our  fatigued  wishes  still  recur  to  home 
for  tranquillity  :  we  long  to  die  in  that  spot  which  gave  us  birth,  and  in 
that  pleasing  expectation  find  an  opiate  for  every  calamity.'     The  poet 
Waller,  too,  wished  to  die  '  like  the  stag  where  he  was  roused.' ' 

99.  How  happy  he.  The  first  ed.  has  "  How  blest  is  he,"  which  is  re- 
tained by  some  of  the  recent  editors.  On  crowns  cf.  85. 

102.  Cf.  The  Bee:  "By  struggling  with  misfortunes  we  are  sure  to  re- 
ceive some  wound  in  the  conflict :  the  only  method  to  come  off  victorious 
is  by  running  away." 

104.  Tempt  the  deep.  A  Latinism.  Cf.  Virgil,  Eel.  iv.  32  :  "temptare 
Thetim  ratibus." 

107.  His  latter  end.  A  common  Bible  phrase.  Cf.  Num.  xxiv.  20,  Job 
viii.  7,  Prov.  xix.  20,  etc. 

109.  Bends  to  the  grave.  The  reading  of  the  4th,  7th,  and  other  early 
editions.  Some  have  "  Sinks  to  the  grave." 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE.  131 

in,  112.  The  rhyme  is  the  same  as  in  95,  96. 

116.  Mingling.  Sometimes  incorrectly  printed  "mingled."  The  suc- 
ceeding lines  are  a  good  example  of  the  "  correspondence  of  sound  and 
sense."  Campbell's  Philos.  of  Rhet.  pp.  340-349. 

121.  Bay'd.     Cf.  Shakes.  J.  C.  iv.  3  :  "  I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay 
the  moon,"  etc. 

122.  The  vacant  mind.     Cf.  Shakes.  Hen.  V.  iv.  i : 

"Can  sleep  so  soundly  as  the  wretched  slave, 
Who,  with  a  body  fill'd,  and  vacant  mind, 
Gets  him  to  rest,"  etc. 

124.  Cf.  An.  Nat.  vol.  i. :  "  The  nightingale's  pausing  song  would  be  the 
proper  epithet  for  this  bird's  music." 

As  the  nightingale  is  not  found  in  Ireland,  the  introduction  of  the  bird 
here  is  either  a  Hibernicism  or  a  poetic  license.  Cf.  Byron,  note  on  Siege 
of  Corinth :  "  I  believe  I  have  taken  a  poetic  license  to  transplant  the 
jackal  from  Asia.  In  Greece  I  never  saw  nor  heard  these  animals ;  but 
among  the  ruins  of  Ephesus  I  have  heard  them  by  hundreds." 

129.  This  woman  is  said  to  have  been  Catherine  Giraghty,  or  Geraghty. 
See  p.  127,  footnote. 

\-yz.Plashy.  Puddle-like.  Wordsworth  has  "  the  plashy  earth."  See 
Wb. 

135.  See  on  17. 

•*«.  137.  This  description  of  the  "  village  preacher  "  was  written  soon  after 
he  received  the  tidings  of  his  brother  Henry's  death,  and  bears  traces  of 
the  recent  grief.  Irving  says  :  "  To  the  tender  and  melancholy  recol- 
lections of  his  early  days  awakened  by  the  death  of  this  loved  companion 
of  his  childhood  we  may  attribute  some  of  the  most  heartfelt  passages  in 
his  Deserted  Village.  Much  of  that  poem  we  are  told  was  composed 
this  summer,  in  the  course  of  solitary  strolls  about  the  green  lanes  and 
beautifully  rural  scenes  of  the  neighbourhood ;  and  thus  much  of  the 
softness  and  sweetness  of  English  landscape  became  blended  with  the 
ruder  features  of  Lissoy.  It  was  in  these  lonely  and  subdued  moments, 
when  tender  regret  was  half  mingled  with  self-upbraiding,  that  he  poured 
forth  that  homage  of  the  heart  rendered  as  it  were  at  the  grave  of  his 
brother.  The  picture  of  the  village  pastor  in  this  poem,  which  we  have 
already  hinted,  was  taken  in  part  from  the  character  of  his  father,  em- 
bodied likewise  the  recollections  of  his  brother  Henry ;  for  the  natures 
of  the  father  and  son  seem  to  have  been  identical.  In  the  following 
lines,  however,  Goldsmith  evidently  contrasted  the  quiet  settled  life  of 
his  brother,  passed  at  home  in  the  benevolent  exercise  of  the  Christian 
duties,  with  his  own  restless  vagrant  career  : 

'Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place.' 

To  us  the  whole  character  seems  traced  as  it  were  in  an  expiatory  spirit ; 
as  if,  conscious  of  his  own  wandering  restlessness,  he  sought  to  humble 
himself  at  the  shrine  of  excellence  which  he  had  not  been  able  to  practise." 
142.  Passing.  Surpassingly,  exceedingly ;  once  a  common  word  in 
this  sense. 


132 


NOTES. 


Cf.  the  Dedication  to  The  Traveller:  "a  man  who,  despising  fame  and 
fortune,  has  retired  early  to  happiness  and  obscurity,  with  an  income  of 
forty  pounds  a  year." 

143.  Cf.  Heb.  xii.  I. 

145.  Unpractised.  The  ist  ed.  has  "  Unskilful ;"  and  in  148,  "  More 
bent  to  raise,"  etc.  The  use  of  the  infinitive  ("to  fawn"  for  "in  fawn- 
ing") is  a  Latinism.  Cf.  161,  195,  288,  etc. 

149.  See  on  17. 

152.  Cf.  Hall,  Satires:   "Stay  till  my  beard  shall  sweep  mine  aged 
breast." 

153.  Spendthrift.     One  of  an  expressive  class  of  words,  most  of  which 
are  obsolete ;  as  scapethrift  (Holinshed),  wastethrift  (B.  and  F.),  dingthrift, 
that  is,  one  who  "  dings  "  or  drives  away  thrift,  as  in  Herrick  (quoted  by 
Nares) : 

"  No,  but  because  the  dingthrift  now  is  poore, 
And  knowes  not  where  i'  th'  world  to  borrow  more." 

155.  The  broken  soldier.  Cf.  Campbell,  Soldier's  Dream  :  "And  fain 
was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay;"  also  Virgil,  JEn.  ii.  13:  "fracti 
bello  ;"  and  xii.  I  :  "  infractos  adverse  Marte." 

171.  Parting  life.     See  on  4. 

176.  Accents.    For  words,  as  often  in  poetry.   Cf.  Longfellow,  Excelsior : 

"And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue." 

178.  Cf.  Dryden,  Good  Parson :  "  His  eyes  diffused  a  venerable  grace." 
180.  Cf.  Jasp.  Mayne,  Mem.  of  Ben  Jonson: 

"  For  thou  e'en  sin  didst  in  such  words  array, 
That  some  who  came  bad  parts  went  out  good  play," 

and  Dryden,  Brit.  Red. : 

"Our  vows  are  heard  betimes,  and  Heaven  takes  care 
To  grant  before  we  can  conclude  the  prayer ; 
Preventing  angels  met  it  half  the  way, 
And  sent  us  back  to  praise  who  came  to  pray." 

182.  Steady  zeal.  It  is  "ready  zeal"  in  the  ist  and  some  modern  edi- 
tions. Goldsmith  doubtless  changed  it  on  account  of  the  "ready  smile," 
three  lines  below. 

189.  Lord  Lytton  (Miscellaneous  Works,  vol.  i.  p.  65)  has  traced  this 
simile  to  a  poem  by  the  Abbe  de  Chaulieu,  who  lived  1639-1720,  and 
whose  verses  were  popular  at  the  time  when  Goldsmith  was  travelling 
on  the  Continent : 

"Tel  qu'un  rocher  dont  la  tete 

Egalant  le  Mont  Athos, 
Voit  a  ses  pieds  la  tempete 

Troublant  le  calme  des  flots, 
La  mer  autour  bruit  et  gronde ; 

Malgre"  ses  emotions, 
Sur  son  front  eleve"  regne  une  paix  profonde." 

"  Every  one,"  adds  Lord  Lytton,  "  must  own  that,  in  copying,  Goldsmith 
wonderfully  improved  the  original,  and  his  application  of  the  image  to  the 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Christian  preacher  gives  it  a  moral  sublimity  to  which  it  has  no  pretension 
in  Chaulieu,  who  applies  it  to  his  own  philosophical  patience  under  his 
physical  maladies." 

194.  Unprofitably  gay.  An  English  friend  writes:  "Goldsmith  was 
wrong  when  he  wrote  this  line.  The  furze  is  not  unprofitable.  The  cot- 
tager knows  how  to  use  it.  The  green  young  species  give  food  to  horse 
and  cow,  or  donkey  maybe,  and  its  old  branches  make  a  first-rate  fence." 

196.  The  village  master.  Goldsmith  is  supposed  here  to  have  drawn 
the  portrait  of  his  own  early  teacher,  of  whom  Irving  gives  the  following 
account : 

"  At  six  years  of  age  he  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  village  school- 
master, one  Thomas  (or,  as  he  was  commonly  and  irreverently  named, 
Paddy)  Byrne,  a  capital  tutor  for  a  poet.  He  had  been  educated  for  a 
pedagogue,  but  had  enlisted  in  the  army,  served  abroad  during  the  wars 
of  Queen  Anne's  time,  and  risen  to  the  rank  of  quartermaster  of  a  regi- 
ment in  Spain.  At  the  return  of  peace,  having  no  longer  exercise  for  the 
sword,  he  resumed  the  ferule,  and  drilled  the  urchin  populace  of  Lissoy." 

After  quoting  lines  193-216,  Irving  adds  : 

"  There  are  certain  whimsical  traits  in  the  character  of  Byrne,  not  given 
in  the  foregoing  sketch.  He  was  fond  of  talking  of  his  vagabond  wan- 
derings in  foreign  lands,  and  had  brought  with  him  from  the  wars  a  world 
of  campaigning  stories,  of  which  he  was  generally  the  hero,  and  which  he 
would  deal  forth  to  his  wondering  scholars  when  he  ought  to  have  been 
teaching  them  their  lessons.  These  travellers'  tales  had  a  powerful  ef- 
fect upon  the  vivid  imagination  of  Goldsmith,  and  awakened  an  uncon- 
querable passion  for  wandering  and  seeking  adventure. 

"  Byrne  was,  moreover,  of  a  romantic  vein,  and  exceedingly  superstitious. 
He  was  deeply  versed  in  the  fairy  superstitions  which  abound  in  Ireland, 
all  which  he  professed  implicitly  to  believe.  Under  his  tuition  Goldsmith 
soon  became  almost  as  great  a  proficient  in  fairy  lore.  From  this  branch 
of  good-for-nothing  knowledge,  his  studies,  by  an  easy  transition,  extend- 
ed to  the  histories  of  robbers,  pirates,  smugglers,  and  the  whole  race  of 
Irish  rogues  and  rapparees.  Everything,  in  short,  that  savoured  of  ro- 
mance, fable,  and  adventure  was  congenial  to  his  poetic  mind,  and  took 
instant  root  there ;  but  the  slow  plants  of  useful  knowledge  were  apt  to 
be  overrun,  if  not  choked,  by  the  weeds  of  his  quick  imagination. 

"Another  trait  of  his  motley  preceptor,  Byrne,  was  a  disposition  to  dab- 
ble in  poetry,  and  this  likewise  was  caught  by  his  pupil.  Before  he  was 
eight  years  old  Goldsmith  had  contracted  a  habit  of  scribbling  verses  on 
small  scraps  of  paper,  which,  in  a  little  while,  he  would  throw  into  the 
fire.  A  few'  of  these  sibylline  leaves,  however,  were  rescued  from  the 
flames  and  conveyed  to  his  mother.  The  good  woman  read  them  with  a 
mother's  delight,  and  saw  at  once  that  her  son  was  a  genius  and  a  poet. 
From  that  time  she  beset  her  husband  with  solicitations  to  give  the  boy 
an  education  suitable  to  his  talents." 

198.  Truant.  The  original  meaning  of  this  word  (see  Wb.)  was  vaga- 
bond, but  it  is  found  in  this  special  schoolboy  sense  in  Shakes.  M.  Wives, 
v.  i  :  "  Since  I  plucked  geese,  played  truant,  and  whipped  top,  I  knew 
not  what  'twas  to  be  beaten  till  lately.1' 


'34 


.VOTES. 


200.  Disasters.  The  word  originally  meant  the  baleful  aspect  of  a  star 
or  planet ;  from  the  Latin  dis  and  astrum.  Cf.  Hamlet,  i.  I  :  "  Disasters 
in  the  sun."  Other  words  of  astrological  origin  are  mercurial,  jovial, 
saturnine,  ascendency,  influence,  ill-starred,  etc. 

203.  Circling  round.     Cf.  "  circled  "  in  19. 

205,  206.  Aught  &&&  fault  are  an  imperfect  rhyme,  but  Pope  has  used 
a  similar  one  : 

' '  Before  his  sacred  name  flies  every  fault, 
And  each  exalted  stanza  teems  with  thought." 

It  is  said  that  in  Ireland,  Scotland,  and  some  parts  of  England,  the  sound 
of  the  /  is  often  omitted  in  the  pronunciation  oi fault. 

207.  Village.  For  villagers,  by  metonymy.  H.  p.  85.  Cf.  Ovid,  Fasti, 
ii,  655  :  "  Conveniunt  celebrantque  dapes  vicinia  supplex." 

209.  Terms  and  tides.     The  former  refers  to  "  the  sessions  of  the  uni- 
versities and  law  courts  ;"  and  the  latter  to  "  times  and  seasons  "  (Hales). 
Cf.  Shakes.  K.  John,  iii.  i  :  "  Among  the  high  tides  in  the  Calendar ;" 
that  is,  solemn  seasons.   Noontide,  eventide,  springtide,  etc.,  are  still  in  use, 
at  least  in  poetry. 

210.  Gauge.     That  is,  measure  the  capacities  of  casks. 
218.  Forgot.     See  on  Trav.  358. 

221.  Ntit-bro-wn.  A  simile  compressed  into  one  word.  Cf.  Milton, 
L1  Allegro,  100  :  "  Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale."  The  word  is  also 
applied  to  a  brunette  complexion,  as  in  the  famous  old  ballad  of  "  The 
Nut-brown  Maid." 

226.  Parlour.  From  the  French  parler,  and  meaning  originally  the 
speaking-room  in  a  monastery — that  is,  the  room  where  conversation 
was  allowed.  See  Wb.  Cf.  boudoir  from  the  French  bonder,  to  pout. 

228.  Click1  d.     Onomatopoetic.     See  on  "  titter'd,"  28. 

232.  The  twelve  good  rides.  These  were,  "  i.  Urge  no  healths  ;  2.  Pro- 
fane no  divine  ordinances ;  3.  Touch  no  state  matters ;  4.  Reveal  no  se- 
crets ;  5.  Pick  no  quarrels ;  6.  Make  no  comparisons ;  7.  Maintain  no  ill 
opinions  ;  8.  Keep  no  bad  company ;  9.  Encourage  no  vice  ;  10.  Make  no 
long  meals  ;  11.  Repeat  no  grievances  ;  12.  Lay  no  wagers."  These  rules 
were  ascribed  to  Charles  I.  Goldsmith,  in  the  fragment  describing  an 
author's  bedchamber,  speaks  of  them  as  "the  twelve  rules  the  royal 
martyr  drew."*  Cf.  Crabbe,  Parish  Register: 

"There  is  King  Charles  and  all  his  golden  rules, 
Who  proved  Misfortune's  was  the  best  of  schools." 

*  This  fragment,  which  was  afterwards  worked  over  in  this  passage  of  The  Deserted 
Village,  first  appears  in  a  letter  to  his  brother  Henry,  written  in  the  early  part  of  1759, 
from  which  the  following  is  an  extract  : 

"  Your  last  letter,  I  repeat  it,  was  too  short ;  you  should  have  given  me  your  opinion 
of  the  design  of  the  heroi-comical  poem  which  I  sent  you.  You  remember  I  intended  to 
introduce  the  hero  of  the  poem  as  lying  in  a  paltry  ale-house.  You  may  take  the  follow- 
ing specimen  of  the  manner,  which  I  flatter  myself  is  quite  original.  The  room  in  which 
he  lies  may  be  described  somewhat  in  this  way : 

'The  window,  patch' d  with  paper,  lent  a  ray 
That  feebly  snowM  the  state  in  which  he  lay: 
The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread. 
The  humid  wall  wilh  paltry  pictures  spread; 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

The  royal  game  of  goose.  Not  the  ordinary  game  of  "fox  and  goose," 
but  an  obsolete  game  played  upon  a  board  with  sixty-two  compartments. 
It  is  described  in  Strutt's  Sports  and  Pastimes,  bk.  iv.  ch.  2.  "  It  is  called 
the  game  of  goose  because  at  every  fourth  and  fifth  compartment  in  suc- 
cession a  goose  was  depicted ;  and  if  the  cast  thrown  by  the  player  falls 
upon  a  goose,  he  moves  forward  double  the  number  of  his  throw." 

234.  See  description  of  Mr.  Hogan's  "restored"  ale-house,  p.  127,  foot- 
note. 

235.  Chimney.      That    is,  the   fireplace.      Cf.  Milton,  L1  Allegro,  in: 
"And  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length  ;"  and  Shakes.  Cymb.  ii.  4  : 
"  the  chimney  Is  south  the  chamber."     See  Wb. 

239.  Obscure  it  sinks.     Sinks  into  obscurity. 

240.  Cf.  Horace's  address  to  the  wine-jar  (Od.  iii.  21) :  "  addis  cornua 
pauperi ;"  and  Burns,  Tarn  O'Shanter : 

"  Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious." 

243.  The  barber's  tale.    The  garrulity  of  barbers  had  passed  into  a 
proverb. 

244.  Woodman,  which  now  means  a  wood-chopper,  used  to  mean  a 
hunter.      Cf.  Merry  Wives,  v.  5:    "Am  I  a  woodman,  ha?  speak  I  like 
Herne  the  hunter  ?" 

248.  Mantling  bliss.  The  foaming  cup,  "  which  maketh  glad  the  heart ;" 
an  instance  of  metonymy.  Cf.  Pope  :  "  And  the  brain  dances  to  the 
mantling  bowl ;"  and  Tennyson,  In  Memoriam,  civ.  :  "  Nor  bowl  of  was- 
sail mantle  warm."  For  the  different  meanings  of  mantle  (cf.  132)  see  Wb. 

250.  Kiss  the  cup.  Just  touch  it  with  her  lips.  Cf.  Scott,  Marmion,  v. 
12  :  "  The  bride  kissed  the  goblet,  the  knight  quaffed  it  up." 

252.  See  on  17.     Cf.  320  and  337. 

258.  Cf.  Milton,/'.  L.  ii.  185  :  "  Unrespited,  unpitied,  unrepriev'd  ;"  iii. 
231  :  "  Comes  unprevented,  unimplor'd,  unsought ;"  v.  899  :  "  Unshaken, 
unseduc'd,  unterrified  ;"  Shakes.  M.  of  V.  iii.  2  :   "Is  an  unlesson'd  girl, 
unschool'd,  unpractis'd  ;"  Byron,  CJnlde  Harold:  "  Without  a  grave,  un- 
knell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown,"  etc. 

259.  Pomp.     In  its  original  sense  of  train  or  procession.     See  Wb. 
265.  Survey.     That  is,  observe.     The  omission  of  the  infinitive  sign  to 

in  the  next  line  is  exceptional. 

The  game  of  goose  was  there  expos'  d  to  view, 

And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew ; 

The  Seasons,  fram'd  with  listing,  found  a  place, 

And  Prussia's  monarch  show'd  his  lamp-black  face. 

The  morn  was  cold :  he  views  with  keen  desire 

A  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire  ; 

An  unpaid  reckoning  on  the  frieze  was  scor*d, 

And  five  crack' d  teacups  dress' d  the  chimney  board.' 

#***## 

"  All  this  is  taken,  you  see,  from  nature.  It  is  a  good  remark  of  Montaigne's,  that  the 
wisest  men  often  have  friends  with  whom  they  do  not  care  how  much  they  play  the  fool. 
Take  my  present  follies  as  instances  of  my  regard.  Poetry  is  a  much  easier  and  more 
agreeable  species  of  composition  than  prose ;  and,  could  a  man  live  by  it,  it  were  not  un- 
pleasant employment  to  be  a  poet." 


NOTES. 

268.  An  happy  land.  See  on  Trav.  34.  Cf.  Cit.  of  World,  i. :  "  there 
is  a  wide  difference  between  a  conquering  and  a  flourishing  empire." 

274.  Products.     Not  "  product,"  as  in  some  editions. 

275  foil.  See  introductory  remarks,  p.  124.  Cf.  Horace,  Od.  ii.  15,  for 
a  similar  complaint  that  the  rich  man's  palaces,  ponds,  etc.,  occupy  lands 
once  productive  and  useful.  See  also  Od.  ii.  18,  19-28. 

279.  Note  the  transfer  of  "  silken  "  from  "  robe "  to  "  sloth."    H.  p.  86. 

280.  Cf.  40  above. 

283.  He  seems  to  mean  that  the  country  exports  more  than  its  surplus 
productions,  bartering  for  foreign  luxuries  what  it  really  needs  for  home 
consumption. 

285,  286.  We  follow  the  punctuation  of  the  early  editions.     It  is  often 

printed  thus  : 

' '  While  thus  the  land,  adorn'  d  for  pleasure  all, 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall." 

287.  This  use  of  female  for  "woman"  is  now  properly  considered  a 
vulgarism. 

288.  Secure  to  please.     Confident  of  pleasing.     See  on  145.    Cf.  Thom- 
son, Autumn,  202  : 

"Veil'd  in  a  simple  robe,  their  best  attire, 
Beyond  the  pomp  of  dress  ;  for  loveliness 
Needs  not  the  foreign  aid  of  ornament, 
But  is  when  unadorn'd  adorn' d  the  most." 

293.  Solicitous  to  bless.  Anxious  to  charm,  or  "  to  find  lovers  on  whom 
she  may  bestow  her  favours." 

295.  Thus  fares  the  land.     Cf.  51  above. 

297.  Verging.     As  it  verges,  or  tends. 

298.  Vistas.     Views,  prospects.     See  Wb. 

299.  This  is  the  punctuation  of  the  best  editions.     Some  point  the 
couplet  thus  : 

' '  While,  scourg5  d  by  famine,  from  the  smiling  land 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band." 

300.  Cf.  Roscoe's  Nurse :  "  Sinks  the  poor  babe,  without  a  hand  to 


save." 


304.  To  scape.     This  word  is  commonly  printed  as  a  contraction  of  es- 
cape, but  we  find  it  also  in  prose  ;  as  in  Bacon,  Adv.  of  L.  ii.  14,  9  :  "such 
as  had  scaped  shipwreck,"  etc.      Shakes,  uses  it  much  oftener  than  es- 
cape.    See  Wb.  s.  v.     Cf.  estate  and  state,  esquire  and  squire,  espy  and  spy, 
establish  and  stablish  (2  Sam.  vii.  13  ;   I  Chron.  xvii.  12),  and  similar  pairs 
of  words  of  Norman- French  origin. 

305.  Strayed.     Having  strayed.     Cf.  sped  in  309. 
313.  The  ist  ed.  has  "To  see  each  joy,"  etc. 

316.  Artist.  For  artisan,  as  the  latter  word  was  sometimes  used  for 
artist.  Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  Dictionary,  does  not  recognize  the  specialized 
sense  of  "painter"  for  artist.  Cf.  Waller,  To  the  King: 

"  How  to  build  ships,  and  dreadful  ordnance  cast, 
Instruct  the  artists,  and  reward  their  haste;" 

and,  on  the  other  hand,  The  Guardian  (quoted  by  Hales) : 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE.  137 

''Best  and  happiest  artisan, 
Best  of  painters,  if  you  can, 
With  your  many-colour' d  art 
Draw  the  mistress  of  my  heart." 

3 1 7.  Long-drawn  pomps.     Cf.  Gray's  Elegy:  "the  long-drawn  aisle;" 
and  see  on  259  above. 

318.  Glooms.     This  verb  occurs  again  in  363,  where  it  is  used  tran- 
sitively. 

319.  Dome.     See  on  Trav.  159. 

322.  Torches.  Before  the  introduction  of  street-lights,  people  who  could 
afford  it  were  preceded  by  torch-bearers  when  going  abroad  at  night. 

326.  See  on  287.  Cf.  Cit.  of  World,  ii. :  "  These  poor  shivering  females 
have  once  seen  happier  days,  and  been  flattered  into  beauty  .  .  .  Perhaps 
now  lying  at  the  doors  of  their  betrayers,  they  sue  to  wretches  whose 
hearts  are  insensible." 

335.  Ambitious  of  the  town.     Longing  for  or  aspiring  to  a  city  life. 

336.  Wheel.     That  is,  spinning-wheel.     Of  course,  country  is  an  adjec- 
tive, and  brown  a  noun. 

338.  Participate  regularly  takes  the  preposition  in,  though  of  is  some- 
times used.  See  Wb. 

342.  The  convex  world.  Cf.  Virgil,  Eel.  iv.  50  :  "  Nutantem  convexo 
pondere  mundum." 

344.  Altama.  The  Altamaha  river,  in  Georgia.  To  =  in  response  to, 
or  in  consonance  with. 

348.  Day.  By  metonymy  for  the  heat  or  light  of  day,  as  in  41.  Cf. 
Pope,  Messiah :  "  And  on  the  sightless  eyeball  pour  the  day." 

352.  Gathers  death.     Collects  its  deadly  venom. 

354.  The  rattling  terrors.     The  rattle  of  the  rattlesnake. 

355.  Crouching  tigers.     The  jaguar  and  the  puma  are  the  "  American 
tigers." 

356.  Cf.  Sir  W.  Temple  (quoted  by  some  of  the  editors)  : 

"To  savage  beasts  who  on  the  weaker  prey, 
Or  human  savages  more  wild  than  they." 

358.  Mingling,  etc.     Cf.  Virgil,  dZn.  i.  134 : 

"lam  caelum  terramque  meo  sine  numine,  Venti, 
Miscere,  et  tantas  audetis  tollere  moles  ?" 

366.  Hung  round  the  bowers.  Some  of  the  early  editions  have  "  their 
bowers." 

368.  Seats.     Abodes,  homes ;  like  the  Latin  sedes.     Cf.  6  above. 

371.  Cf.  Goldsmith's  Threnodia  Augustalis :  "The  good  old  sire,  un- 
conscious of  decay." 

373.  Conscious  virtue.     Cf.  Virgil,  ALn.  xii.  668  :  "  et  conscia  virtus." 

378.  The  ist  ed.  has  "  for  her  father's  arms."  The  meaning  of  course 
is  that  she  left  her  lover  in  England  to  accompany  her  father  to  America. 

384.  Silent  manliness.     Manly  silence. 

385.  O  Lttxury  !     For  this  "third  degree  of  personification,"  see  H.  p. 
1 53  foil. 

386.  Things  like  these.    "  Not  referring  to  anything  in  the  context,  but  to 
the  general  subject  of  the  poem,  the  innocence  and  happiness  of  country  life." 


138  NOTES. 

391-394.  Cf.  Trav.  144. 

397.  Methinks.     See  on  Trav.  283. 

398.  For  the  figure  ("  Vision,"  so-called)  see  H.  p.  165. 

399.  Anchoring.     Anchored,  at  anchor. 

402.  "  He  seems  to  distinguish  between  shore  and  strand,  making 
strand  mean  the  beach,  the  shore  in  the  most  limited  sense  of  the 
word"  (Hales). 

407.  See  on  385. 

409.  Unfit.  Unsuited  ;  not  from  any  fault  or  defect  in  herself,  but  be- 
cause the  times  are  degenerate. 

413.  Cf.  Wither's  address  to  the  Muse  in  The  Shepherd's  Hunting: 

"And  though  for  her  sake  I'm  crost, 
Though  my  best  hopes  I  have  lost, 
And  knew  she  would  make  my  trouble 
Ten  times  more  than  ten  times  double, 
I  should  love  and  keep  her  too, 
Spite  of  all  the  world  could  do. 

******* 

She  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 
Comfort  in  the  midst  of  sorrow, 
Makes  the  desolatest  place 
To  her  presence  be  a  grace, 
And  the  blackest  discontents 
To  be  pleasing  ornaments. 

******* 

Therefore,  thou  best  earthly  bliss, 
I  will  cherish  thee  for  this — 
Poesy,  thou  sweet' st  content 
That  e'er  heaven  to  mortals  lent,"  etc. 

416.  Fare  thee  well.  In  this  expression  thee  probably  =  thou.  See 
Abbott,  Shakes.  Gr.  212. 

418.  Torno^s  cliffs.     There  is  a  river  Tornea  (or  Torneo,  as  it  is  some- 
times written)  flowing  into  the  Gulf  of  Bothnia,  and  forming  part  of  the 
boundary  between  Sweden  and  Russia.     There  is  also  a  Lake  Tornea  in 
the  extreme  northern  part  of  Sweden.     Cf.  Campbell :    "  Cold  as  the 
rocks  on  Torneo;s  hoary  brow."     Pambamarca  is  said  to  be  a  mountain 
near  Quito. 

419.  Equinoctial  fervours.     Equatorial  heat. 

422.  See  on  Trav.  176. 

423.  In  some  of  the  earlier  editions,  the  couplet  is  punctuated  thus  : 

"Aid  slighted  Truth  ;  with  thy  persuasive  strain 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain." 

The  "my"  for  "thy"  in  some  editions  is  obviously  a  misprint. 

424.  Rage  of  gain.     Rage  for  gain  ;  Seneca's  "  lucri  furor." 

426.  Very  blest.     A  violation  of  the  rule  that  very  cannot  be  joined  to 
participles  ;  though  blest  here  may  be  regarded  as  an  adjective. 

427.  The  last  four  lines,  Boswell  tells  us,  were  added  by  Dr.  Johnson. 

428.  Mole.     A  mound  or  breakwater  at  the  mouth  of  a  harbour.     Cf. 
Cicero,  De  Off.\\.^:    "moles  oppositae  fluctibus ;"   Horace,  Od.  iii.  i  : 
"  Jactis  in  altum  molibus." 

430.  Rocks.  That  is,  natural  rocks,  as  opposed  to  the  artificial  "  mole." 
The  sky  =  the  weather,  like  the  Latin  "  caelum." 


RETALIATION. 


139 


RETALIATION. 

THIS  poem  was  the  last  work  of  Goldsmith,  and  was  not  printed  until 
after  his  death,  appearing  for  the  first  time  on  the  i8th  of  April,  1774. 

The  following  account  of  the  origin  of  the  poem  is  from  the  original 
manuscript  in  Garrick's  handwriting,  and  was  first  printed  in  Cunning- 
ham's edition  of  Goldsmith  : 

"  As  the  cause  of  writing  the  following  printed  poem  called  Retaliation 
has  not  yet  been  fully  explained,  a  person  concerned  in  the  business  begs 
leave  to  give  the  following  just  and  minute  account  of  the  whole  affair  : 

"At  a  meeting*  of  a  company  of  gentlemen,  who  were  well  known  to 
each  other,  and  diverting  themselves,  among  many  other  things,  with  the 
peculiar  oddities  of  Dr.  Goldsmith,  who  never  would  allow  a  superior  in 
any  art,  from  writing  poetry  down  to  dancing  a  hornpipe,  the  Doctor 
with  great  eagerness  insisted  upon  trying  his  epigrammatic  powers  with 
Mr.  Garrick,  and  each  of  them  was  to  write  the  other's  epitaph.  Mr.  Gar- 
rick  immediately  said  that  his  epitaph  was  finished,  and  spoke  the  fol- 
lowing distich  extempore  : 

'Here  lies  Nolly  Goldsmith,  for  shortness  call'd  Noll, 
Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  but  talk'd  like  poor  Poll.'  t 

Goldsmith,  upon  the  company's  laughing  very  heartily,  grew  very  thought- 
ful, and  either  would  not  or  could  not  write  anything  at  that  time ;  how- 
ever, he  went  to  work,  and  some  weeks  after  produced  the  following  print- 
ed poem  called  Retaliation,  which  has  been  much  admired,  and  gone 
through  several  editions.  The  public  in  general  have  been  mistaken  in 
imagining  that  this  poem  was  written  in  anger  by  the  Doctor  :  it  was  just 
the  contrary ;  the  whole  on  all  sides  was  done  with  the  greatest  good 
humour  ;  and  the  following  poems  in  manuscript  were  written  by  several 
of  the  gentlemen  on  purpose  to  provoke  the  Doctor  to  an  answer,  which 
came  forth  at  last  with  great  credit  to  him  vs\  Retaliation." 

As  Cunningham  suggests,  the  above  was  "  evidently  designed  as  a  pref- 
ace to  a  collected  edition  of  the  poems  which  grew  out  of  Goldsmith's 
trying  his  epigrammatic  powers  with  Garrick." 

Irving,  after  giving  the  history  of  the  poem,  comments  upon  it  as  follows  : 

"  The  characters  of  his  distinguished  intimates  are  admirably  hit  off, 

with  a  mixture  of  generous  praise  and  good-humoured  raillery.     In  fact 

the  poem  for  its  graphic  truth,  its  nice  discrimination,  its  terse  good- 

*  At  the  St.  James  Coffee-House  in  St.  James  Street. 

t  This  couplet  has  been  printed  in  a  variety  of  forms,  but  this  is  doubtless  the  correct 
one,  as  we  have  it  on  Garrick's  own  authority. 


I40  NOTES. 

sense,  and  its  shrewd  knowledge  of  the  world,  must  have  electrified  the 
club  almost  as  much  as  the  first  appearance  of  The  Traveller,  and  let 
them  still  deeper  into  the  character  and  talents  of  the  man  they  had  been 
accustomed  to  consider  as  their  butt.  Retaliation,  in  a  word,  closed  his 
accounts  with  the  club,  and  balanced  all  his  previous  deficiencies. 

"  The  portrait  of  David  Garrick  is  one  of  the  most  elaborate  in  the 
poem.  When  the  poet  came  to  touch  it  off,  he  had  some  lurking  piques 
to  gratify,  which  the  recent  attack  had  revived.  He  may  have  forgotten 
David's  cavalier  treatment  of  him,  in  the  early  days  of  his  comparative 
obscurity ;  he  may  have  forgiven  his  refusal  of  his  plays ;  but  Garrick 
had  been  capricious  in  his  conduct  in  the  times  of  their  recent  inter- 
course :  sometimes  treating  him  with  gross  familiarity,  at  other  times  af- 
fecting dignity  and  reserve,  and  assuming  airs  of  superiority  ;  frequently 
he  had  been  facetious  and  witty  in  company  at  his  expense,  and  lastly  he 
had  been  guilty  of  the  couplet  just  quoted.  Goldsmith,  therefore,  touch- 
ed off  the  lights  and  shadows  of  his  character  with  a  free  hand,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  gave  a  side  hit  at  his  old  rival,  Kelly,  and  his  critical  per- 
secutor, Kenrick,  in  making  them  sycophantic  satellites  of  the  actor. 
Goldsmith,  however,  was  void  of  gall  even  in  his  revenge,  and  his  very 
satire  was  more  humourous  than  caustic. 

"  This  portion  of  Retaliation  soon  brought  a  retort  from  Garrick,  which 
we  insert,  as  giving  something  of  a  likeness  of  Goldsmith,  though  in 
broad  caricature  : 

'  Here,  Hermes,  says  Jove,  who  with  nectar  was  mellow, 
Go  fetch  me  some  clay — I  will  make  an  odd  fellow: 
Right  and  wrong  shall  be  jumbled,  much  gold  and  some  dross, 
Without  cause  be  he  pleased,  without  cause  be  he  cross ; 
Be  sure,  as  I  work,  to  throw  in  contradictions, 
A  great  love  of  truth,  yet  a  mind  turn'd  to  fictions; 
Now  mix  these  ingredients,  which,  warm' d  in  the  baking, 
Turn'd  to  learning  and  gaining,  religion  and  raking. 
With  the  love  of  a  wench  let  his  writings  be  chaste  ; 
Tip  his  tongue  with  strange  matter,  his  lips  with  fine  taste  ; 
That  the  rake  and  the  poet  o'er  all  may  prevail, 
Set  fire  to  the  head  and  set  fire  to  the  tail ; 
For  the  joy  of  each  sex  on  the  world  I'll  bestow  it, 
This  scholar,  rake,  Christian,  dupe,  gamester,  and  poet. 
Though  a  mixture  so  odd,  he  shall  merit  great  fame, 
And  among  brother  mortals  be  Goldsmith  his  name ; 
When  on  earth  this  strange  meteor  no  more  shall  appear, 
You,  Hermes,  shall  fetch  him,  to  make  us  sport  here.' 

"  The  charge  of  raking,  so  repeatedly  advanced  in  the  foregoing  lines, 
must  be  considered  a  sportive  one,  founded,  perhaps,  on  an  incident  or 
two  within  Garrick's  knowledge,  but  not  borne  out  by  the  course  of 
Goldsmith's  life.  He  seems  to  have  had  a  tender  sentiment  for  the  sex, 
but  perfectly  free  from  libertinism.  Neither  was  he  an  habitual  game- 
ster. The  strictest  scrutiny  has  detected  no  settled  vice  of  the  kind.  He 
was  fond  of  a  game  of  cards,  but  an  unskilful  and  careless  player.  Cards 
in  those  days  were  universally  introduced  into  society.  High  play  was, 
in  fact,  a  fashionable  amusement,  as  at  one  time  was  deep  drinking ;  and 
a  map  might  occasionally  lose  large  sums,  and  be  beguiled  into  deep 
potations,  without  incurring  the  character  of  a  gamester  or  a  drunkard. 


RETALIATION. 


141 


Poor  Goldsmith,  on  his  advent  into  high  society,  assumed  fine  notions 
with  fine  clothes ;  he  was  thrown  occasionally  among  high  players,  men 
of  fortune  who  could  sport  their  cool  hundreds  as  carelessly  as  his  early 
comrades  at  Ballymahon  could  their  half-crowns.  Being  at  all  times 
magnificent  in  money  matters,  he  may  have  played  with  them  in  their 
own  way,  without  considering  that  what  was  sport  to  them  to  him  was 
ruin.  Indeed,  part  of  his  financial  embarrassments  may  have  arisen  from 
losses  of  the  kind,  incurred  inadvertently,  not  in  the  indulgence  of  a 
habit.  '  I  do  not  believe  Goldsmith  to  have  deserved  the  name  of  game- 
ster,' said  one  of  his  contemporaries  ;  '  he  liked  cards  very  well,  as  other 
people  do,  and  lost  and  won  occasionally ;  but  as  far  as  I  saw  or  heard, 
and  I  had  many  opportunities  of  hearing,  never  any  considerable  sum. 
If  he  gamed  with  any  one,  it  was  probably  with  Beauclerk,  but  I  do  not 
know  that  such  was  the  case.' 

"Retaliation,  as  we  have  already  observed,  was  thrown  off  in  parts,  at 
intervals,  and  was  never  completed.  Some  characters,  originally  intend- 
ed to  be  introduced,  remained  unattempted ;  others  were  but  partially 
sketched — such  was  the  one  of  Reynolds,  the  friend  of  his  heart,  and 
which  he  commenced  with  a  felicity  which  makes  us  regret  that  it  should 
remain  unfinished : 

'  Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind : 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand ; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland ; 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judg'd  without  skill  he  was  still  hard  of  hearing ; 
When  they  talk'd  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet  and  only  took  snuff. 
By  flattery  unspoil'd' 

"  The  friendly  portrait  stood  unfinished  on  the  easel ;  the  hand  of  the 
artist  had  failed." 

I.  Scarron.  Paul  Scarron,  "the  creator  of  French  burlesque,"  born  at 
Paris  1610,  died  in  1660. 

5.  Our  dean.  Dr.  Thomas  Barnard,  a  native  of  Ireland,  made  Dean  of 
Derry  in  1768  ;  afterwards  Bishop  of  Killaloe,  and  transferred  from  that 
see  to  Limerick.  Cumberland  (see  line  9),  in  some  verses  published  after 
Retaliation  appeared,  attempted  to  apply  to  wines  the  characters  which 
Goldsmith  had  appropriated  to  dishes,  and  called  Dr.  Barnard  "  a  bump- 
er of  conventual  sherry."  The  Dean  replied  to  his  two  friends  in  some 
verses,  of  which  the  following  formed  the  conclusion  : 

"Your  venison's  delicious,  though  too  sweet  your  sauce  is — 
Sed  non  ego  maculis  offendar  paucis. 
So  soon  as  you  please,  you  may  serve  me  your  dish  up, 
But,  instead  of  your  sherry,  pray  make  me — a  bishop.  " 

'  Our  younger  readers  may  miss  the  pun  in  the  last  line  unless  we  inform 
them  that  "  bishop  "  was  the  name  of  a  beverage  made  of  wine,  oranges, 
and  sugar. 


1 42  NOTES. 

6.  Our  Burke.     Edmund  Burke,  the  eminent   statesman  and  orator 
(1728-1797).     Dr.  Johnson  said  of  him  :  "The  mind  of  that  man  is  a  pe- 
rennial stream ;  no  one  grudges  Burke  the  first  place." 

7.  Will.     William  Burke,  a  kinsman  of  Edmund,  who   said  of  him, 
"  He  has  nothing  like  a  fault  about  him  that  does  not  arise  from  the 
luxuriance  of  some  generous  quality."     He  was  for  a  time  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  held  various  public  offices  at  home  and  in  India. 

8.  Dick.     Richard  Burke,  a  younger  brother  of  Edmund,  and  a  bar- 
rister. 

9.  Cumberland.     Richard  Cumberland  (1732-1811),  a  man  of  versatile 
ability,  but  not  eminent  in  any  one  department  of  literature.     He  wrote 
essays,  pamphlets,  poems,  plays,  novels,  etc. 

10.  Douglas.     Dr.  John  Douglas  (1721-1807),  a  Scotchman  and  a  cele- 
brated controversialist  of  that  day.     He  afterwards  became  Bishop  of 
Carlisle,  and  later  of  Salisbury. 

11.  Garrick.     David  Garrick  (1716-1779),  the  famous  actor. 

14.  Ridge.     John  Ridge,  a  member  of  the  Irish  bar,  whom  Burke  de- 
scribed as  "  one  of  the  honestest  and  best-natured  men  living,  and  in- 
ferior to  none  of  his  profession  in  ability."    His  name  does  not  occur 
again  in  the  present  poem. 

Reynolds.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  (1723-1792),  the  great  English  paint- 
er. See  the  Dedication  of  The  Deserted  Village,  etc. 

15.  Hickey.    Thomas  Hickey,  an  eminent  Irish  attorney,  known  in  the 
club  as  "  honest  Tom  Hickey." 

1 6.  Gooseberry  fool.     A  dish  made  of  gooseberries  and  cream.     See 
Wb. 

23.  The  good  dean.     See  on  5  above. 

29.  Edmund.     Burke  ;  see  on  6. 

34.  Tommy  Townshend.  A  well-known  member  of  Parliament  of  that 
day,  afterwards  Lord  Sydney.  See  88. 

38.  Nice.     Scrupulous. 

43.  Honest  William.     See  on  7. 

45.  [Is  there  a  confusion  of  metaphors  in  this  passage  ?     H.  p.  in.] 

51.  Honest  Richard.  The  "  Dick  "  of  line  8.  He  broke  a  leg  in  1767, 
to  which  accident  the  poet  alludes  just  below. 

62.  The  Terence  of  England.  An  example  of  the  figure  known  as  an- 
tonomasia.  H.  p.  84.  The  allusion  to  the  Latin  dramatist  needs  no  ex- 
planation. 

67.  Dizejfd.     The  more  common  word  is  bedizened. 

68.  A  rout.     That  is,  an  evening  party. 

86.  Our  Dodds,  etc.     Dr.  William  Dodd  was  a  fashionable  preacher  of 
the  time,  and  noted  also  as  a  writer.     He  came  to  a  bad  end,  being  exe- 
cuted for  forgery  in  1777. 

William  Kenrick  was  a  dramatist  and  reviewer,  and  had  given  lectures 
on  Shakespeare.  He  hated  Goldsmith,  and  had  often  attacked  him 
anonymously.  Irving  speaks  of  him  as  "  Goldsmith's  constant  persecu- 
tor, the  malignant  Kenrick." 

87.  Macpherson.     James  Macpherson  (1738-1796),  a  Scotchman,  who 
in  1762  published  poems  attributed  to  Ossian,  "founded  in  part  on  Gae- 


RE  TALI  A  TION.  1 4  3 

lie  traditional  poetry,  but  so  modern  in  form  and  expression  of  the  senti- 
mental gloom  then  fashionable,  that  they  owed  their  great  success  to  the 
reproduction  in  new  form  of  living  tendencies  of  thought "  (Morley). 

89.  Lauders  and  Bowers.  William  Lauders,  a  Scotchman  and  a  school- 
master, was  the  author  of  a  famous  literary  forgery.  He  wrote  a  series 
•  of  papers  charging  Milton  with  plagiarism,  but  Dr.  Douglas  (see  on  10) 
showed  that  the  passages  quoted  in  proof  of  the  charge  were  fictitious. 
Archibald  Bower  was  another  Scotchman,  who  published  a  "  History  of 
the  Popes,"  full  of  errors  and  plagiarisms,  which  were  exposed  by  Dr. 
Douglas. 

115.  Ye  Kellys  and  Woodfalls.     Hugh  Kelly  was  an  Irishman,  and  a 
writer  of  essays,  poems,  and  plays.     Johnson  used  to  speak  of  him  as  a 
man  who  had  written  more  than  he  had  read.     As  a  dramatist  he  was 
regarded  as  Goldsmith's  chief  rival,  and  when  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  had 
taken  the  town  by  storm,  the  following  epigram  appeared  in  the  news- 
papers : 

"At  Dr.  Goldsmith's  merry  play, 
All  the  spectators  laugh,  they  say ; 
The  assertion,  sir,  I  must  deny, 
For  Cumberland  and  Kelly  cry. 

Ride,  si  sapis." 

Another,  addressed  to  Goldsmith,  alludes  to  Kelly's  early  apprentice- 
ship to  stay-making : 

"  If  Kelly  finds  fault  with  the  shape  of  your  muse, 

And  thinks  that  too  loosely  it  plays, 

He  surely,  dear  Doctor,  will  never  refuse 

To  make  it  a  new  Pair  of  Stays!" 

William  Woodfall  was  the  editor  of  the  Morning  Chronicle,  a  leading 
paper  of  the  time,  and  was  especially  famous  as  a  theatrical  critic. 

116.  Commerce.     "Interchange  of  flattery  and  compliments." 

117.  Grub-street.     Now  Milton  Street,*  in  London.     In  the  lyth  and 
1 8th  centuries  it  was  a  favourite  haunt  of  literary  men,  but  as  its  respecta- 
bility declined  it  became  the  home  of  a  crowd  of  inferior  authors — poor 
in  a  double  sense — who  hid  from  the  bailiffs  in  its  old-fashioned  houses 
and  dingy  courts.    Hence  the  name  of  Grub-street  came  to  be  a  synonym 
for  that  class  of  writers. 

118.  Be-Roscius^d.     Lauded  as  a  second  Roscius,  or  as  the  rival  of  the 
greatest  of  Roman  actors. 

124.  Eeaumonts  and  Bens.     Francis  Beaumont  (1586-1615),  associated 
with  John  Fletcher  as  joint  author  of  thirty-eight  plays.      The  Bens  al- 
ludes of  course  to  "rare  Ben  Jonson"!  (1573-1637). 

125.  Hickey.     See  on  15. 

131.  Flat.     "Having  no  opinion  of  his  own." 

138.  The  reading  in  some  eds.  is  "a  better  or  wiser." 

*  When  the  name  was  changed  we  do  not  know.  Milton's  tomb  is  in  the  church  of 
St.  Giles,  Cripplegate,  close  by  ;  and  the  sites  of  his  house  in  Barbican,  and  of  his  birth- 
place in  Bread  Street,  Cheapside,  are  both  within  a  few  minutes'  walk. 

t  The  inscription  on  the  tablet  to  his  memory  in  Westminster  Abbey  was  "  O  rare 
Ben  Jonson,"  but  when  the  stone  was  "restored  "  some  years  ago  it  was  made  to  read 
"  O  rare  Ben  Johnson,"  and  the  blunder  has  been  allowed  to  stand. 


I44  NOTES. 

145.  Raphaels,  Correggios.     That  is,  paintings  by  those  masters ;  one 
of  the  most  familiar  forms  of  metonymy.     H.  p.  86. 

146.  He  shifted  his  trumpet.     Reynolds  was  so  deaf  that  he  had  to  use 
an  ear-trumpet.     Cf.  La  Vie  de  Le  Sage :  "  II  faisait  usage  d'un  cornet 
qu'il  appeloit  son  bienfaiteur.     Quand  je  trouve,  disoit-il,  des  visages 
nouveaux,  et  que  j'espere  rencontrer  des  gens  d' esprit,  je  tire  mon  cornet; 
quand  ce  sont  des  sots,  je  le  resserre  et  je  les  defie  de  m'ennuyer." 

147.  By  flattery  ^mspoi^d.     The  manuscript  of  the  poem  ended  with 
this  broken  line.     It  was  probably  the  last  that  Goldsmith  wrote. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  these  lines  are  Goldsmith's,  though 
they  were  not  made  public  till  some  time  after  the  rest  of  the  poem. 

1.  Caleb  Whitefoord,  a  native  of  Edinburgh,  came  to  London  in  early  life, 
and  was  for  some  years  a  wine-merchant.     A  man  of  varied  attainments 
and  of  facetious  disposition,  he  was  a  favourite  with  authors  and  artists, 
and  a  frequent  writer  of  both  prose  and  verse  under  assumed  names.    To 
the  Public  Advertiser  he  contributed  humourous  letters,  "  mistakes  of  the 
press,"  and  "cross-readings."     He  wrote  some  epitaphs  on  Goldsmith, 
Cumberland,  and  others,  which  were  so  sarcastic  as  to  offend  his  friends ; 
whereupon  he  wrote  an  apology,  of  which  the  last  stanza  reads  thus  : 

"  For  those  brats  of  my  brain 

Which  have  caus'd  so  much  pain, 
Henceforth  I'll  renounce  and  disown  'em; 

And  still  keep  in  sight 

When  I  epitaphs  write : 
De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum" 

2.  A  grave  man.     "  Whitefoord  was  so  notorious  a  punster  that  Dr. 
Goldsmith  used  to  say  it  was  impossible  to  keep  him  company  without 
being  infected  with  the  itch  of  punning." 

14.  The  quotation  is  from  Hamlet,v.  i  :  "Your  flashes  of  merriment 
that  were  wont  to  set  the  table  on  a  roar." 

16.  Wood/all.  His  friend,  Mr.  H.  S.  Woodfall,  the  editor  of  the  Public 
Advertiser. 


/         J  ^ 


> 

AGITATED   SIGNATURE   OF    GOLDSMITH. 


INDEX  OF  WORDS   EXPLAINED. 


accents  (—words),  132. 

Altama,  137. 

an  (before  /z),  in,  130. 

anchoring,  138. 

Apennine,  113. 

art,  113. 

artist  (=artisan),  136. 

bay,  131. 

be-Rosciused,  143. 
bishop  (a  beverage),  141. 
bleak,  115. 
bliss,  112,  135. 
boudoir,  134. 
broken,  132., 

cheer,  118. 

chimney  (=fireplace),  135. 
circled,  129. 
clicked,  134. 
commerce,  143. 
conforms,  117. 
consigned,  112. 
cower,  117. 

Damiens,  121. 
day  (=heat),  137. 
decent,  129. 
depart  (=part),  128. 
dingthrift,  132. 
disaster,  134. 
dizened,  142. 
dome,  115. 
dress,  112. 

either,  113. 

fare  thee  well,  138. 
female,  136. 
ferments,  120. 
fictitious,  120. 
frieze,  118. 
furze,  133. 

gelid,  113. 
gestic,  1 1 8. 
glooms  (verb),  137. 


God  speed,  117. 
goose,  the  game  of,  135. 
gooseberry  fool,  142. 

S'eat,  the,  120. 
rub-street,  143. 

husband  out,  130. 
Hydaspes,  119. 

Idra,  112. 
imprisoned,  120. 

level.  117. 

line  (= equator),  112. 

Luke,  121. 

manners  (=mores),  113. 
mansion,  115. 
mantling,  135. 
me  (reflexive),  in. 
methinks,  n8,  138. 
mistrustless,  129. 
mole,  138. 

Niagara,  121. 

nightly  (=nocturnal),  117. 

nut-brown,  134. 

Oswego,  121. 

palmy,  112. 

Pambamarca,  138. 

parlour,  134. 

parting  (^departing),  128. 

passing  (adverb),  131. 

peculiar,  113. 

plashy,  131. 

pomp,  135. 

port,  119. 

prevails,  112. 

proper,  113. 

rampire,  119. 
recounts,  112. 
redress,  116. 
rocks,  138. 
rout,  142. 

K 


savage  (=wild  beast),  1 16. 

scape  (^escape),  136. 

scapethrift,  132. 

seats  (=homes),  137. 

shelvy,  112. 

sidelong,  129. 

simply,  129. 

sit  (reflexive),  in. 

skill  (=knowledge),  114. 

sky  (— weather),  138. 

sleight,  129. 

sped,  1 1 6. 

spendthrift,  132. 

stems  (^families),  120. 

strand,  138. 

strong  (adverb),  113. 

survey,  135. 

swain,  112. 

tawdry,  118. 

tempt,  130. 

terms,  134. 

tides  (=times),  134. 

tigers,  137. 

titter,  129. 

to  (=in  response  to),  137. 

torches,  137. 

Torno,  138. 

train,  129. 

truant,  133. 

twelve  good  rules,  the,  134. 

unfit,  138. 
untravelled,  no. 

vernal,  113. 
very  (blest),  138. 
vista,  136. 

wastethrift,  132. 
wave-subjected,  119. 
whom  (=which),  130. 
woodman  (=hunter),  135. 
wrote  (=written),  120. 

zealous,  113. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

WITH   NOTES   BY  WM.  J.  ROLFE,  A.M., 

Formerly  Head  Master  of  the  High-School,  Cambridge,  Mass. 
ILLUSTRATED  WITH  WOODCUTS. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.    i6mo,  Cloth,  90  cts. 
THE  TEMPEST.     i6mo,  Cloth,  90  cents. 
HENRY  THE  EIGHTH.    i6mo,  Cloth,  90  cents. 
JULIUS  CAESAR.     i6mo,  Cloth,  90  cts. 

The  four  volumes  in  one,  $3  00. 


From  Prof.  F.  J.  CHILD,  of  Harvard  University. 

After  using  the  book  with  an  evening  class  in  Shakespeare,  Prof.  Child 
writes  as  follows  : 

I  read  your  "  Merchant  of  Venice "  with  my  class,  and  found  it  in 
every  respect  an  excellent  edition.  I  do  not  agree  with  my  friend  White 
in  the  opinion  that  Shakespeare  requires  but  few  notes — that  is,  if  he  is 
to  be  thoroughly  understood.  Doubtless  he  may  be  enjoyed,  and  many 
a  hard  place  slid  over.  Your  notes  give  all  the  help  a  young  student 
requires,  and  yet  the  reader  for  pleasure  will  easily  get  at  just  what  he 
wants.  You  have  indeed  been  conscientiously  concise. 

From  L.  R.  WILLISTON,  A.M.,  Head  Master  of  the  High-School,  Cam- 
bridge, Mass. 

Mr.  Rolfe's  edition  of  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice  "  is  an  excellent  one 
for  school  or  general  use.  The  notes  contain  all  the  explanations  and 
references  needful  for  a  critical  study  of  the  language,  as  well  as  for  un- 
derstanding the  thought  of  the  play.  The  extracts  from  Schlegel,  Mrs. 
Jameson,  and  others,  in  the  Introduction,  helping  to  a  better  appreciation 
of  the  characters  of  the  play,  are  a  peculiar  recommendation  of  this  edition. 

From  Rev.  A.  P.  PEABODY,  D.D.,  Professor  in  Harvard  University. 

I  regard  your  own  work  on  this  play  as  of  the  highest  merit,  while  you 
have  turned  the  labors  of  others  to  the  best  possible  account.  I  want  to 
have  the  higher  classes  of  our  schools  introduced  to  Shakespeare  chief 
of  all,  and  then  to  other  standard  English  authors  ;  but  this  can  not  be 
done  to  advantage,  unless  under  a  teacher  of  equally  rare  gifts  and  abund- 
ant leisure,  or  through  editions  specially  prepared  for  such  use.  I  trust 
that  you  will  have  the  requisite  encouragement  to  proceed  with  a  work 
so  happily  begun. 

Your  "  Merchant  of  Venice  "  seems  to  me  by  no  means  limited,  in  its 
adaptation,  to  school  use.  All  who  have  not  access  to  a  somewhat  ex- 
tended Shakespearian  apparatus  need  such  editions  as  this ;  and  there 
are  many  not  unintelligent  adult  readers  of  Shakespeare  who  lose  half 
the  pleasure  and  profit  of  reading  him  for  lack  of  precisely  such  aid  as 
you  supply 


Rolfe's  Shakespeare. 


From  Prof.  J.  DORMAN  STEELE,  Free  Academy,  Elmira,  N.  Y. 

The  copy  of  the  "  Tempest "  is  at  hand,  and  very  carefully  examined. 
We  shall  use  it  in  the  Spring  Term.  Adoption  in  our  school  is,  of 
course,  the  highest  commendation  I  can  give.  The  "  Merchant  of  Ven- 
ice "  is  now  in  use  and  gives  unqualified  satisfaction.  Prior  to  this, 
Shakespeare's  plays  were  failing  to  interest  the  pupils,  because  of  the 
difficulty  found  in  understanding  and  appreciating  the  text.  Your  beau- 
tiful and  comprehensive  edition  is  very  helpful  indeed,  and  it  has  quick- 
ened the  enthusiasm  of  the  pupils. 

From  W.  C.  COLLAR,  A.M.,  Master  of  the  Roxbury  Latin  School,  Boston. 

Please  accept  my  thanks  for  a  copy  of  your  "Merchant  of  Venice."     I 
.  have  made  a  trial  of  it  with  my  first  class,  and  find  it  admirably  adapted 
kfor  use  in  the  school-room.     I  think  no  one  who  was  not  an  experienced 
teacher  and  a  careful  student  of  Shakespeare  could  have  anticipated  and 
supplied  so  well  the  needs  of  the  learner  ;   and,  if  I  may  judge  from  my 
own  case,  instructors  will  find  the  copious  references  contained  in  the 
notes  very  helpful  in  the  preparation  of  their  lessons.     Give  us  a  few 
more  plays  edited  on  the  same  plan,  and  there  will  no  longer  be  any  ex- 
cuse for  excluding  Shakespeare  from  our  classical  and  high  schools. 

From  S.  M.  CAPRON,  A.M.,  Master  of  the  High-School,  Hartford,  Conn. 

In  my  judgment,  you  have  produced,  in  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice," 
the  best  and  most  sensible  edition  of  one  of  Shakespeare's  plays  which 
has  yet  appeared  for  school  use.  The  publishers  have  done  every  thing 
for  you  in  respect  to  the  form  and  general  appearance  of  the  book ;  and 
your  notes  are  not  only  critical,  but  sufficiently  brief  and  pointed,  and,  so 
far  as  I  have  examined  them,  they  seem  to  cover  the  very  points  in  the 
text  which  particularly  need  elucidation. 

Go  on  as  you  have  begun. 

This  work  has  been  done  so  well  that  it  could  hardly  have  been  done 
better.  It  shows  throughout,  knowledge,  taste,  discriminating  judgment, 
and,  what  is  rarer  and  of  yet  higher  value,  a  sympathetic  appreciation  of 
the  poet's  moods  and  purposes.  *  *  *  Mr.  Rolfe's  notes  are  numerous 
but  brief,  and  are  generally  well  adapted  to  their  purpose,  which  is  that 
of  explanation,  instruction,  and  suggestion  without  discussion.  The  pe- 
culiarities of  Shakespeare's  style — which,  rarely  obscure,  is  often  involved, 
and  in  which  the  main  thought  is  sometimes  suspended,  and  even  for  a 
moment  lost  sight  of  amid  the  crowd  of  others  that  itself  has  called  up — 
are  pointed  out  and  elucidated ;  his  allusions  are  explained ;  his  singular 
use  of  words,  of  moods  and  tenses  and  cases  is  remarked  upon ;  and  the 
archaic  and  transitional  phraseology  which  is  found  in  many  passages  of 
his  plays  (positively  many,  but  comparatively  very  few),  are  made  the  oc- 
casion of  instructive  but  uapedantic  comment. — A7".  Y.  Times. 


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